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SPIiENDID   NOVELS. 

Published  uniform  with  this  volume,  Price  $1.75  oach. 

By  Miss  Muloch. 
JOHN  HALIFAX,  Gentleman. 
A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 

By  Charlotte  Bronte  (*'  Currer  Bell "). 

JANE    EYRE, 

THE    PROFESSOR. 

SHIRLEY, 

VILLETTE. 

These  novels  rank  among  the  very  best  fictions,   and  their  ijopnlarity  is 

immense.     Their  sale  is  counted  by  thousands,  and  their  readers 

by  tens  of  thousands.    The  demand  existing  for  a  libraiy 

style  is  so  great  that  these  new  editions  have  been 

issued.     Copies  will  be  sent  by  mail,  free,  on 

receipt  of  price,  $1.75, 

by 

CARIiETON,   PuWisheVj 
NeTir  York;. 


A    LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE.  \^'^ 


\-    J-^'^         Miss    MULOCH.        ....  ^  .  --  >  /v 

AUTHOa    OP    "JOHN    HALIFAX,  Geni-leman,"    "  AGATHit's' HUSBAND,'" 

"OLIVE,"  "the  OGILVIES,"  ETC. 


I  eome  sot  to  eall  the  rigliteons,  but  Mnners,  to  repeatanc«/ 


NEW    YORK: 

CarletoUy  Publisher^  4.13  Broadway. 

M  DCCC  LXIV, 


3nstx\htb 


/ 
/ 


TO 


MARGARET    AND    MARY. 


A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

HER  STOEY. 

Yes,  I  hate  soldiers. 

I  can't  help  writing  it — it  relieves  my  mind.  All  morn- 
ing have  we  been  driving  about  that  horrid  region  into 
which  om-  beautiful,  desolate  moor  has  been  transmogrified ; 
round  and  round  ;  up  and  down ;  in  at  the  south  camp  and 
out  at  the  north  camp ;  directed  hither  and  thither  by 
muddle-headed  privates ;  stared  at  by  puppyish  young 
officers  ;  choked  with  chimney-smoke ;  jolted  over  roads 
laid  with  ashes — or  no  roads  at  all — and  pestered  every 
where  with  the  sight  of  lounging,  lazy,  red  groups — that 
color  is  becoming  to  me  a  perfect  eye-sore !  What  a  treat 
it  is  to  get  home  and  lock  myself  in  my  own  room — ^the 
tiniest  and  safest  nook  in  all  Rockmount — and  spurt  out 
my  wrath  in  the  blackest  of  ink  with  the  boldest  of  pens. 
Bless  you !  (query,  who  can  I  be  blessing,  for  nobody  will 
ever  read  this),  what  does  it  matter?  And  after  all,  I  re- 
peat, it  reheves  my  mind. 

I  do  hate  soldiers.  I  always  did,  from  my  youth  up,  till 
the  war  in  the  East  startled  every  body  hke  a  thunder-clap. 
What  a  time  it  was — this  time  two  years  ago  I  How  the 
actual  romance  of  each  day,  as  set  down  in  the  newspapers, 
made  my  old  romances  read  hke  mere  balderdash :  how  the 
present,  in  its  infinite  piteousness,  its  tangible  horror,  and 
the  awfulness  of  what  they  called  its  "glory,"  cast  the 
tame  past  altogether  into  shade !  Who  read  history  then, 
or  novels,  or  poetry  ?  Who  read  any  thing  but  that  fear- 
ful "Times?" 

And  now  it  is  all  gone  by :  we  have  peace  again ;  and 
this  20th  of  September,  1856,  I  begin  with  my  birthday  a 
new  journal  (capital  one,  too,  with  a  first-rate  lock  and  key, 
saved  out  of  my  summer  bonnet,  which  I  didn't  buy). 
'Nov  need  I  spoil  the  day — as  once — by  crying  over  those, 
who,  two  years  since, 


6  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

"Went  up 
Ked  Alma's  heights  to  glory." 

Conscience,  tender  over  dead  heroes,  feels  not  the  small- 
est compunction  in  writing  the  angry  initiatory  line,  when 
she  thinks  of  that  odious  camp  which  has  been  established 
near  us,  for  the  education  of  the  mihtary  mind,  and  the 
hardening  of  the  military  body.  Whence  red-coats  swarm 
out  over  the  pretty  neighborhood  like  lady-birds  over  the 
hop  gardens — harmless,  it  is  true,  yet  for  ever  flying  in 
one'sface  in  the  most  impleasant  manner,  making  inroads 
through  one's  parlor  windows,  and  crawling  over  one's  tea- 
table.  Wretched  red  insects!  except  that  the  act  would 
be  murder,  I  often  wish  I  could  put  half  a  dozen  of  them, 
swords,  epaulets,  mustaches,  and  all,  under  the  heel  of  my 
shoe. 

Perhaps  this  is  obstinacy,  or  the  love  of  contradiction. 
Il^o  wonder.  Do  I  hear  of  any  thing  but  soldiers  from 
morning  till  night  ?  At  visits  or  dinner-parties  can  I  speak 
to  a  soul — and  'tis  not  much  I  do  speak  to  any  body: — ^but 
that  she  (I  use  the  pronoun  advisedly)  is  sure  to.  bring  in 
with  her  second  sentence  something  about  "  the  camp !" 

I'm  sick  of  the  camp.  Would  that  my  sisters  were ! 
For  Lisabel,  young  and  handsome,  there  is  some  excuse, 
but  Penelope — she  ought  to  know  better. 

Papa  is  determined  to  go  with  us  to  the  Grantons'  ball 
to-night.  I  wish  there  were  no  necessity  for  it ;  and  have 
suggested  as  strongly  as  I  could  that  we  should  stay  at 
home.  But  what  of  that  ?  N^obody  minds  me.  Nobody 
ever  did  that  I  ever  remember.  So  poor  papa  is  to  be 
dragged  out  from  his  cozy  arm-chair,  jogged  and  tumbled 
across  these  wintery  moors,  and  stuck  up  solemn  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  drawing-room — being  kept  carefully  out  of  the 
card-room  because  he  happens  to  be  a  clergyman.  And  all 
the  while  he  will  wear  his  politest  and  most  immovable  of 
smiles,  just  as  if  he  liked  it.  Oh,  why  can  not  people  say 
what  they  mean  and  do  as  they  wish  ?  Why  must  they 
be  tied  and  bound  with  horrible  chains  of  etiquette  even  at 
the  age  of  seventy !  Why  can  not  he  say,  "  Girls"  (no,  of 
course  he  would  say  "young  ladies"),  "I  had  far  rather 
stay  at  home ;  go  you  and  enjoy  yourselves,"  or  better  still, 
"  go,  two  of  you,  but  I  want  Dora  ?" 

No,  he  never  will  say  that.  He  never  did  want  any 
of  us  much ;  me  less  than  any.  I  am  neither  eldest  nor 
youngest,  neither  Miss  Johnston  nor  Miss  Lisabel,  only 


A    LIFE    FOE,  'A    LIFE.  7 

Miss  Dora — Theodora — "  the  gift  of  God,"  as  my  little  bit 
of  Greek  taught  me.  A  gift — what  for  and  to  whom? 
I  declare,  since  I  was  a  baby,  since  I  was  a  little  solitary 
ngly  child,  wondering  if  I  ever  had  a  mother  hke  other 
childi'en,  smce  even  I  have  been  a  woman  groAvn,  I  never 
have  been  able  to  find  out. 

Well,  I  suppose  it  is  no  use  to  try  to  alter  things.  Papa 
v»dll  go  his  own  way,  and  the  girls  theirs.  They  think  the 
grand  climax  of  existence  is  "  society ;"  he  thinks  the  same, 
at  least  for  young  women,  properly  introduced,  escorted, 
and  protected  there.  So,  as  the  three  Misses  Johnston — 
sweet,  fluttering  doves! — have  no  other  chaperon  or  pro- 
tector, he  makes  a  martyr  of  himself  on  the  shrine  of  pater- 
nal duty,  alias  respectability,  and  goes. 

^  *  ^  ^  jH  ^  Hs 

The  girls  here  called  me  dow^n  to  admire  them.  Yes, 
they  looked  extremely  well;  Lisabel,  majestic,  slow,  and 
fair ;  I  doubt  if  any  thing  in  this  world  would  disturb  the 
equanimity  of  her  sleepy  blue  eyes  and  soft -tempered 
mouth — a  large,  mild,  beautiful  animal,  like  a  white  Brah- 
min cow.  Very  much  admired  is  our  Lisabel,  and  no 
wonder.  That  white  barege  will  kill  half  the  officers  in  the 
camp.  She  was  going  to  put  on  her  pink  one,  but  I  sug- 
gested how  ill  pink  v/ould  look  against  scarlet,  and  so,  after 
a  series  of  titters,  Miss  Lisa  took  my  advice.  She  is  evi- 
dently bent  upon  looking  her  best  to-night. 

Penelope,  also :  but  I  w^ish  Penelope  would  not  wear 
such  airy  dresses,  and  such  a  quantity  of  artificial  flowers, 
Avhile  her  curls  are  so  thin  and  her  cheeks  so  sharp.  She 
used  to  have  very  pretty  hair  ten  years  ago.  I  remember 
being  exceedingly  shocked  and  fierce  about  a  curl  of  hers 
that  I  saw  stolen  in  the  summer-house,  by  Francis  Charteris, 
before  we  found  out  that  they  Avere  engaged. 

She  rather  expected  him  to-night,  I  fancy.  Mrs.  Grantou 
was  sure  to  have  invited  him  with  us ;  but,  of  course,  he 
has  not  come.  He  .never  did  come,  in  my  recollection, 
when  he  said  he  would. 

I  ought  to  go  and  dress ;  but  I  can  do  it  in  ten  minutes, 
and  it  is  not  worth  while  wastmg  more  time.  Those  two 
girls — what  a  capital  foil  each  makes  to  the  other!  little, 
dark,  lively — not  to  say  satirical ;  large,  amiable,  and  fair. 
Papa  ought  to  be  proud  of  them — I  suppose  he  is. 

Heigho  !  'Tis  a  good  thing  to  be  good-looking.  And  next 
best,  perhaps,  is   downright   ugliness — nice,  interesting, 


8  A   LIFJi]   FOR   A   LIFE. 

attractive  ugliness — such  as  I  have  seen  in  some  women; 
nay,  I  have  somewhere  read  that  ugly  women  have  often 
been  loved  best. 

But  to  be  just  ordinary;  of  ordinary  height,  ordinary 
figure,  and,  oh  me !  let  me  lift  up  my  head  from  the  desk 
to  the  looking-glass,*  and  take  a  good  stare  at  an  undeniably 
ordinary  face.  'Tis  not  pleasant.  Well;  I  am  as  I  was 
made ;  let  me  not  undervalue  myself,  if  only  out  of  rever- 
ence for  Him  who  made  me. 

Surely — Captain  Treherne's  voice  below.  Does  that 
young  man  expect  to  be  taken  to  the  ball  in  our  fly? 
Truly,  he  is  making  himself  one  of  the  family  already. 
And  there  is  papa  calling  us.     What  will  papa  say  ? 

Why,  he  said  nothing ;  and  Lisabel,  as  she  swept  slowly 
down  the  staircase  with  a  little  silver  lamp  m  her  right 
hand,  likewise  said  nothing ;  but  she  looked — 

"  Every  body  is  lovely  to  somebody,"  says  the  proverb. 
Query,  if  somebody  I  could  name  should  live  to  the  age  of 
Methuselah,  will  she  ever  be  lovely  to  any  body  ? 

What  nonsense !  Bravo !  thou  wert  in  the  right  of  it, 
jolly  miller  of  Dee ! 

"I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I ; 
And  nobody  cares  for.  me. " 

So,  let  me  lock  up  my  desk  and  dress  for  the  ball. 

******* 

Keally,  not  a  bad  ball ;  even  now — when  looked  at  in  the 
light  of  next  day's  quiet — with  the  leaves  stirrmg  lazily  in 
the  fir-tree  by  my  window,  and  the  broad  sunshine  bright- 
ening the  moorlands  far  away. 

Not  a  bad  ball,  even  to  me,  who  usually  am  stoically  con- 
temptuous of  such  senseless  amusements ;  doubtless  from 
the  mean  motive  that  I  hke  dancing,  and  am  rarely  asked 
to  dance ;  that  I  am  just  five-and-twenty,  and  get  no  more 
attention  than  if  I  were  five-and-forty.  Of  course,  I  protest 
continually  that  I  don't  care  a  pin  for  this  fact  (mem.  mean 
again).  For  I  do  care — at  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart,  I 
do.  Many  a  time  have  I  leaned  my  head  here — good  old 
desk,  you  will  tell  no  tales !  and  cried,  actually  cried — with 
the  pain  of  being  neither  pretty,  agreeable,  nor  young. 

Moralists  say,  it  is  in  every  woman's  power  to  be  in  a 
measure  all  three :  that  when  she  is  not  liked  or  admired — 
by  some  few  at  least — it  is  a  sign  that  she  is  neither  like- 
able nor  admirable.  Therefore,  I  suppose  I  am  neither. 
Probably  very  disagreeable.     Penelope  often  says  so,  in 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  ^  9 

her  sharp,  and  Lisahel  in  her  lazy  way.  Lis  would  apply 
the  same  expression  to  a  gnat  on  her  wrist,  or  a  dagger 
pointed  at  her  heart.  A  "thoroughly  amiable  w^oman!" 
^Now,  I  never  was — never  shall  be — an  amiable  woman. 

To  return  to  the  ball — and  really  I  would  not  mind  re- 
turning to  it  and  having  it  all  over  again,  which  is  more 
than  one  can  say  of  many  hours  of  our  lives,  especially  of 
those  which  roll  on  rapidly  as  hours  seem  to  roll  after  iive- 
and-twenty.  It  was  exceedingly  amusmg.  Large,  well-lit 
rooms,  filled  with  well-dressed  people ;  we  do  not  often  make 
such  a  goodly  show  in  our  country  entertainments;  but 
then  the  Grantons  know  every  body,  and  invite  every 
body.  ISTobody  would  do  that  but  dear  old  Mrs.  Granton, 
and  "  my  Colin,"  who,  if  he  has  not  three  pennyworth  of 
brains,  has  the  Idndest  heart  and  the  heaviest  purse  in  the 
w^hole  neighborhood. 

I  am  sure  Mrs.  Granton  must  have  felt  proud  of  her 
handsome  suite  of  rooms,  quite  a  perambulatory  parterre, 
boasting  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  subdued  by  the  proper 
complement  of  inevitable  black.  By-and-by,  as  the  evening- 
advanced,  dot  after  dot  of  the  adored  scarlet  made  its  ap- 
pearance round  the  doors,  and  circulating  gradually  round 
the  room,  completed  the  coloring  of  the  scene. 

They  were  most  effective  when  viewed  at  a  distance — 
these  scarlet  dots.  Some  of  them  were  very  young  and 
very  small;  wore  their  short  iiau' — regulation  cut  —  ex- 
ceedingly straight,  and  did  not  seem  quite  comfortable  in 
their  clothes. 

"Militia,  of  course,"  I  overheard  a  lady  observe,  who 
apparently  knew  all  about  it.  "  ISTone  of  our  officers  w^ear 
uniform  when  they  can  avoid  it." 

But  these  yoimg  lads  seemed  uncommonly  j^roud  of 
theirs,  and  strutted  and  sidled  about  the  door,  very  valor- 
ous and  magnificent,  until  caught  and  dragged  to  their 
destiny — in  the  shape  of  some  fair  partner ;  when  they  im- 
mediately relapsed  into  shyness  and  awkwardness — nay,  I 
might  add^stupidity ;  but  were  they  not  the  hopeful  de- 
fenders of  their  country,  and  did  not  their  noble  swords  lie 
idle  at  this  moment  on  the  safest  resting-place — Mrs.  Gran- 
ton's  billiard-table? 

I  watched  the  scene  out  of  my  corner  in  a  state  of 
dreamy  amusement ;  mingled  with  a  vague  curiosity  as 
to  how  long  I  should  be  left  to  sit  solitary  there,  and 
whether  it  would  be  very  duTl,  if  "  with  G:azing  fed" — in- 

A  2  .      ^        ^ 


10  A   LIFE    FOP.   A  LIFE. 

eluding  a  trifle  of  supper — I  thus  had  to  spend  the  entire 
evening. 

Mrs.  Granton  came  bustling  up. 

"  My  dear  girl — are  you  not  dancing  ?" 

"  Apparently  not,"  said  I,  laughing,  and  trying  to  catch 
her,  and  make  room  for  her.  Vain  attempt !  Mrs.  Granton 
never  will  sit  down  while  there  is  any  thing  that  she  thinks 
can  be  done  for  any  body.  In  a  moment  she  would  have 
been  buzzing  all  round  the  room  like  an  amiable  bee  in 
search  of  some  unfortunate  youth  upon  whom  to  inflict  me 
as  a  partner — ^but  not  even  my  desire  of  dancing  would  al- 
low me  to  sink  so  low  as  that. 

For  safety  I  ran  after,  and  attacked  the  good  old  lady 
on  one  of  her  weak  pomts.  Luckily  she  caught  the  bait, 
and  we  were  soon  safely  landed  on  the  great  blanket,  beef, 
and  anti-beer  distribution  question,  now  shaking  our  parish 
to  its  very  foundations.  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  though  the 
rector's  daughter,  it  is  very  little  I  know  about  our  parish. 
And  though  at  first  I  rather  repented  of  my  7'wse,  seeing 
that  Mrs.  Granton's  deafness  made  both  her  remarks  and 
my  answers  most  unpleasantly  public,  gradually  I  became 
so  interested  in  what  she  v/as  telling  me,  that  we  must  have 
kept  on  talking  for  nearly  twenty  minutes,  when  some  one 
called  the  old  lady  away. 

"  Sorry  to  leave  you.  Miss  Dora,  but  I  leave  you  in  good 
company,"  she  said,  nodding  and  smiling  to  some  people 
behind  the  sofa,  with  whom  she  probably  thought  I  Avas 
acquamted;  but  I  was  not,  nor  had  the  slightest  ambition 
for  that  honor.  Strangers  at  a  ball  have  rarely  any  thing 
to  say  vv^orth  saying  or  hearing.  So  I  never  turned  my 
head,  and  let  Mrs.  Granton  trot  away. 

My  mind  and  eyes  followed  her  with  a  half  sigh,  consid- 
ering whether  at  sixty  I  shall  have  half  the  activity,  or 
cheerfulness,  or  kindness,  of  her  dear  old  self 

'No  one  broke  in  upon  my  meditations.  Papa's  white 
head  was  visible  in  a  distant  doorway. ;  for  the  girls,  they 
had  long  since  vanished  in  the  whirligig.  I  caught  at  times 
a  glimpse  of  Penelope's  rose-clouds  of  tarietan,  her  pale 
face,  and  ever  smiling  white  teeth,  that  contrast  ill  with 
her  restless  black  eyes  ;  it  is  always  rather  painful  to  me  to 
watch  my  eldest  sister  at  parties.  And  now  and  then  Miss 
Lisabel  came  floating,  moon-like,  through  the  room,  almost 
obscuring  young,  slender  Captain  Treherne,  who  yet  ap- 
jDeared  quite  content  in  his  occultation.     He  also  seemed 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  11 

to  be  of  my  opinion  that  scarlet  and  white  were  the  best 
mixture  of  colors,  for  I  did  not  see  him  make  the  slightest 
attempt  to  dance  Avith  any  lady  but  Lisabel. 

Several  people,  I  noticed,  looked  at  them  and  smiled ; 
and  one  lady  whispered  something  about  "poor  clergy- 
man's daughter"  and  "  Sir  Wilham  Treherne." 

I  felt  hot  to  my  very  temples.  Oh,  if  Ave  were  all  in 
Paradise,  or  a  nunnery,  or  some  place  where  there  was 
neither  thinking  nor  making  of  marriages ! 

I  determined  to  catch  Lisa  Avlien  the  Avaltz  was  done. 
She  Avaltzes  Avell,  even  gracefully,  for  a  tall  Avoman — ^but  I 
Avished,  I  wished — my  Avish  was  cut  short  by  a  collision 
which  made  me  start  up  Avith  an  idea  of  rushing  to  the 
rescue ;  however,  the  next  moment  Treherne  and  she  had 
recovered  their  balance  and  Avere  spinning  on  again.  Of 
course  I  sat  down  immediately. 

But  my  looks  must  be  terrible  tell-tales,  since  some  one 
behind  me  said,  as  plain  as"  if  in  answer  to  my  thoughts, 

"  Pray  be  satisfied ;  the  lady  could  not  have  been  in  the 
least  hurt." 

I  Avas  surprised ;  for,  though  the  voice  Avas  polite,  even 
Idnd,  people  do  not,  at  least  in  our  country  society,  address 
a  lady  without  an  introduction.  I  ansAvered  civilly,  of 
course,  but  it  must  haA^e  been  with  some  stiffiiess  of  man- 
ner, for  the  gentleman  said, 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  concluded  it  was  your  sister  who  slip- 
ped, and  that  you  Avere  uneasy  about  her,"  boAved,  and  im- 
mediately moved  aAvay. 

I  felt  uncomfortable ;  uncertain  AA^hether  to  take  any  more 
notice  of  him  or  not ;  wondering  who  it  Avas  that  had  used 
the  unwonted  liberty  of  speaking  to  me — a  stranger — and 
Avhether  it  Avould  have  been  committing  myself  in  any  Avay 
to  venture  more  than  a  boAV  or  a  "  Thank  you." 

At  last  common-sense  settled  the  matter. 

"  Dora  Johnston,"  thought  I,  "  do  not  be  a  simpleton. 
Do  you  consider  yourself  so  much  better  than  your  fellow- 
creatures  that  you  hesitate  at  returning  a  civil  answer  to  a 
civil  remark — meant  kindly  too — because  you,  forsooth, 
like  the  French  gentleman  aa^io  was  entreated  to  saA^e  an- 
other gentleman  from  drowning — '■''  should  haA^e  been  most 
happy,  but  haA'e  never  been  introduced.'  What !  girl,  is 
this  your  scorn  of  couA^entionality — your  grand  habit  of 
thinking  and  judging  for  yourself — your  noble  independ- 
ence of  all  the  folUes  of  societA^  ?     Fie !  fie !" 


12  A  LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

To  piinisli  myself  for  my  cowardice,  I  determined  to  turn 
round  and  look  at  the  gentleman. 

The  punishment  was  not  severe.  He  had  a  good  face, 
brown  and  dark ;  a  thin,  spare,  wiry  figure ;  an  air  some- 
what formal.  His  eyes  were  grave,  yet  not  without  a 
lurking  spirit  of  humor,  which  seemed  to  have  clearly  pen- 
etrated and  been  rather  amused  by  my  foolish  embarrass- 
ment and  ridiculous  indecision.  This  vexed  me  for  the 
moment;  then  I  smiled — we  both  smiled,  and  began  to 
talk. 

Of  course,  it  would  have  been  diiierent  had  he  been  a 
young  man,  but  he  was  not.  I  should  think  he  was  nearly 
forty. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Granton  came  up,  with  her  usual 
pleased  look  when  she  thinks  other  people  are  pleased  with 
one  another,  and  said,  in  that  friendly  manner  that  makes 
every  body  else  feel  friendly  together  also, 

"  A  partner,  I  see.  That's  right.  Miss  Dora.  You  shall 
have  a  quiadrille  in  a  minute,  Doctor." 

Doctor !  I  felt  relieved.  He  might  have  been  worse — 
perhaps,  from  his  beard,  even  a  camp  officer. 

"  Our  friend  takes  things  too  much  for  granted,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  I  believe  I  must  introduce  myself.  My  name  is 
XJrquhart." 

"  Doctor  Urquhart?" 

"Yes." 

Here  the  quadrille  began  to  form,  and  I  to  button  my 
gloves  not  discontentedly.     He  said, 

"I  fear  I  am  assuming  a  right  on  false  pretenses,  for  I 
never  danced  in  my  life.  You  do,  I  see.  I  must  not  de- 
tain you  from  another  partner."  And,  once  again,  my  un- 
known friend,  who  seemed  to  have  such  extreme  penetra- 
tion into  my  motives  and  intentions,  moved  aside. 

Of  course  I  got  no  partner — I  never  do.  When  the  doc- 
tor reappeared,  I  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him.  He  took 
no  notice  whatever  of  my  humiliating  state  of  solitude,  but 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  dancers'  vacated  places,  and  re- 
sumed the  thread  of  our  conversation  as  if  it  had  never  been 
broken. 

Often,  in  a  crowd,  two  j^eople  not  much  interested  there- 
in, fall  upon  subjects  perfectly  extraneous,  which  at  once 
make  them  feel  interested  in  these  and  in  each  other.  Thus, 
it  seems  quite  odd  this  morning  to  think  of  the  multiplicity 
of  heterogeneous  topics  which  Dr.  Urquhart  discussed  last 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  13 

night.  I  gained  from  him  much  A'arious  information.  He 
must  have  been  a  great  traveler,  and  observer  too  ;  and  for 
me,  I  marvel  now  to  recollect  how  freely  I  spoke  my  mind 
on  many  things  which  I  usually  keep  to  myself,  partly  from 
shyness,  partly  because  nobody  here  at  home  cares  one 
straw  about  them.  Among  others  came  the  universal  theme 
— the  war. 

I  said,  I  thought  the  three  much-laughed-at  Quakers,  who 
went  to  advise  jjeace  to  the  Czar  Nicholas,  were  much  near- 
er the  truth  than  many  of  their  mockers.  War  seemed  to 
me  so  utterly  opposed  to  Christianity  that  I  did  not  see 
how  any  Christian  man  could  ever  become  a  soldier. 

At  this.  Dr.  Urquhart  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the 
sofa,  and  looked  me  steadily  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  mean  that  a  Christian  man  is  not  to  defend  his 
own  life  or  hberty,  or  that  of  others,  under  any  circum- 
stances ?  or  is  he  to  wear  a  red  coat  peacefully  while  peace 
lasts,  and  at  his  first  battle  throw  down  his  musket,  shoulder 
his  Testament,  and  walk  away  ?" 

These  words,  though  of  a  freer  tone  than  I  was  used  to, 
were  not  spoken  in  any  irreverence.  They  puzzled  me.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  playmg  the  oracle  upon  a  subject  where- 
on I  had  not  the  least  ground  to  form  an  ojDinion  at  all. 
Yet  I  would  not  yield. 

"  Dr.  Urquhart,  if  you  recollect,  I  said  '  become  a  soldier.' 
How,  being  akeady  a  soldier,  a  Christian  man  should  act,  I 
am  not  wise  enough  to  judge.  But  I  do  think,  other  pro- 
fessions being  open,  for  him  to  choose  voluntarily  the  pro- 
fession of  arms,  and  to  receive  wages  for  taking  away  life, 
is  at  best  a  monstrous  anomaly,  l^ay,  however  it  may  be 
glossed  over  and  refined  away,  surely,  m  face  of  the  plain 
command, '  Thou  shalt  not  hiU^  military  glory  seems  little 
better  than  a  picturesque  form  of  murder." 

I  spoke  strongly — more  strongly  perhaps  than  a  young 
woman,  whose  opinions  are  more  instincts  and  emotions 
than  matured  principles,  ought  to  speak.  If  so,  Dr.  Urqu- 
hart gave  me  a  fittmg  rebuke  by  his  total  silence. 

Nor  did  he  for  some  time,  even  so  much  as  look  at  me, 
but  bent  his  head  down  till  I  could  only  catch  the  fore- 
shortened profile  of  forehead,  nose,  and  curly  beard.  Cer- 
tamly,  though  a  mustache  is  mean,  pup^^yish,  intolerable, 
and  whiskers  not  much  better,  there  is  something  fine  and 
manly  in  a  regular  Oriental  beard. 

Dr.  Urquhart  spoke  at  last. 


14  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

"  So,  as  I  overheard  you  say  to  Mrs.  Granton,  you  '  hate 
soldiers.'    '  Hate'  is  a  strong  word — for  a  Christian  woman." 

My  own  weapons  turned  upon  me. 

"  Yes,  I  hate  soldiers  because  my  principles,  instincts,  ob- 
servations, confirm  me  in  the  justice  of  my  dislike.  In  peace, 
they  are  idle,  useless,  extravagant,  cmnberers  of  the  coun- 
try— the  mere  butterflies  of  society.  In  war — you  know 
what  they  are." 

"  Do  I  ?"  with  a  slight  smile. 

I  grew  more  angry. 

"  In  truth  had  I  ever  had  a  spark  of  military  ardor,  it 
would  have  been  quenched  within  the  last  year.  I  never 
see  a  thing — we'll  not  say'a  man — with  a  red  coat  on,  who 
does  not  make  himself  thoroughly  contempt — " 

The  word  stuck  in  the  middle.  For  lo !  there  passed 
slowly  by  my  sister  Lisabel ;  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Captain 
Treherne,  looking  as  I  never  saw  Lisabel  look  before.  It 
suddenly  rushed  across  me  what  might  happen — perhaps 
had  happened.  Suppose,  in  thus  rashly  venting  my  preju- 
dices, I  should  be  tacitly  condemning  my — what  an  odd 
idea !  —  my  brother-in-law  ?  Pride,  if  no  better  feelmg, 
caused  me  to  hesitate. 

Dr.  IJrquhart  said,  quietly  enough,  "  I  should  tell  you — 
indeed,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before — that  I  am  myself 
in  the  army." 

I  am  sure  I  looked — as  I  felt — like  a  downright  fool. 
This  comes,  I  thought,  of  speaking  one's  mind,  especially 
to  strangers.  Oh !  should  I  ever  learn  to  hold  my  tongue, 
or  gabble  pretty  harmless  nonsense  as  other  girls  ?  Why 
should  I  have  talked  seriously  to  this  man  at  all  ?  I  knew 
nothing  of  him,  and  had  no  business  to  be  interested  in 
him,  or  even  to  have  listened  to  him — my  sister  would  say 
— until  he  had  been  "  properly  introduced ;"  until  I  knew 
where  he  lived,  and  who  were  his  father  and  mother,  and 
what  was  his  profession,  and  how  much  income  he  had  a 
year. 

Still,  I  did  feel  interested,  and  could  not  help  it.  Some- 
thing it  seemed  that  I  was  bound  to  say :  I  wished  it  to  be 
civil  if  possible. 

"  But  you  are  Dr.  Urquhart.  An  army-surgeon  is  scarce 
ly  like  a  soldier  ;  his  business  is  to  save  life  rather  than  to 
destroy  it.    Surely  you  never  could  have  killed  any  body  ?" 

The  moment  I  had  put  the  question  I  saw  how  childish 
and  uncalled  for — in  fact,  how  actually  impertinent  it  was. 


A   LITE   FOR   A   LIFE.  15 

Covered  with  confusion,  I  drew  back,  and  looked  another 
way.  It  was  the  greatest  relief  imaginable  Avlien  just  then 
Lisabel  saw  me,  and  came  up  with  Captain  Treherne,  all 
smiles,  to  say,  was  it  not  the  pleasantest  party  imaginable ! 
and  who  had  I  been  dancing  with  ? 

"  N'obody." 

"  ^ay,  I  saw  you  myself  talking  to  some  strange  gentle- 
man.   Who  was  he  ?    A  rather  odd-looking  person,  and — " 

"  Hush,  please.     It  was  a  Dr.  Urquhart." 

"  Urquhart  of  ours  ?"  cried  young  Treherne.  "  Why,  he 
told  me  he  should  not  come,  or  should  not  stay  ten  minutes 
if  he  came.  Much  too  sohd  for  this  kmd  of  thing — eh,  you 
see  ?  Yet  a  capital  fellow.  The  best  fellow  in  all  the  world. 
Where  is  he  ?" 

But  the  "  best  fellow  in  all  the  world"  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared. 

I  enjoyed  the  rest  of  the  evening  extremely — ^that  is,  pret- 
ty well.  Xot  altogether,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  for 
though  I  danced  to  my  heart's  content.  Captain  Treherne 
seeming  eager  to  bring  up  his  whole  regiment,  successive- 
ly, for  my  patronage  and  Penelope's  (N.B.  not  Lisabel' s), 
whenever  I  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of  DrrUrquhart's 
bro^vn  beard,  conscience  stung  me  for  my  folly  and  want 
of  tact.  Dear  me !  What  a  thing  it  is  that  one  can  so  sel- 
dom utter  an  honest  oi^inion  without  offending  somebody. 

Was  he  reaUy  offended  ?  He  must  have  seen  that  I  did 
not  mean  any  harm ;  nor  does  he  look  like  one  of  those 
touchy  people  who  are  always  wincing  as  if  they  trod  on 
the  tails  of  imaginary  adders.  Yet  he  made  no  attempt  to 
come  and  talk  to  me  again ;  for  which  I  was  sorry ;  partly 
because  I  would  have  hked  to  make  him  some  amends,  and 
partly  because  he  seemed  the  only  man  present  worth  talk- 
ing to. 

I  do  wonder  more  and  more  what  my  sisters  can  find  m 
the  young  men  they  dance  and  chatter  with.  To  me  they 
are. inane,  conceited,  absolutely  unendm*able.  Yet  there 
may  be  good  in  some  of  them.  May  ?  ^ay,  there  must 
be  good  in  every  human  being.  Alas,  me  !  Well  might 
Dr.  Urquhart  say  last  night  that  there  are  no  judgments  so 
harsh  as  those  of  the  erring,  the  inexperienced,  and  the 
young. 

I  ought  to  add  that,  when  we  were  wearily  waiting  for 
our  fly  to  draw  up  to  the  hall  door,  Dr.  Urquhart  suddenly 
appeared.     Papa  had  Penelojie  on  his  arm ;  Lisabel  was 


16  A   LIFE   rOK   A   LIFE. 

whispering  with  Captain  Trehcrne.  Yes,  depend  npon  it, 
that  young  man  will  be  my  brother-in-law.  I  stood  by  my- 
self in  the  doorway,  looking  out  on  the  pitch-dark  night, 
when  some  one  behind  me  said, 

"  Pray  stand  within  shelter.  You  young  ladies  are  never 
half  careful  enough  of  your  health.     Allow  me.'' 

And  with  a  grave  professional  air,  my  medical  friend 
wrapped  me  closely  up  in  my  shawl. 

"  A  plaid,  I  see.  That  is  sensible.  There  is  nothing  for 
warmth  like  a  good  plaid,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  which, 
even  had  it  not  been  for  his  name,  and  a  sHght  strengthen- 
ing and  broadening  of  his  English,  scarcely  amounting  to 
an  accent,  would  have  pretty  well  showed  what  part  of  the 
kingdom  Dr.  Urquhart  came  from.  I  was  going,  in  my 
bluntness,  to  put  the  direct  question,  but  felt  as  if  I  had 
committed  myself  quite  enough  for  one  night. 

Just  then  was  shouted  out  "  Mr.  Johnson's," — (oh  dear ! 
shall  we  ever  get  the  aristocratic  t  into  our  plebeian  name  ?) 
— "  Mr.  Johnson's  carriage,"  and  I  was  hurried  into  the  fly. 
I^ot  by  the  doctor,  though ;  he  stood  like  a  bear  on  the 
doorstep,  and  never  attempted  to  stir. 

That's  aUr 


CHAPTER  II. 

HIS    STOEY. 

Hospital  Memoranda^  Sept.  21st. — Private  William  Car- 
ter, set.  24';  admitted  a  week  to-day.  Gastric  fever — ty- 
phoid form — slight  delirium — ^bad  case.  Asked  me  to  write 
to  his  mother ;  did  not  say  where.  Mem. :  to  mquire 
among  his  division  if  any  thing  is  known  about  his  friends. 

Corporal  Thomas  Hardman,  get.  50 — Delmum  tremens — 
mendmg.  Knew  him  in  the  Crimea,  when  he  was  a  per- 
fectly sober  fellow,  with  constitution  of  iron.  "  Trench 
work  did  it,"  he  says,  "  and  last  winter's  idleness."  Mem. : 
to  send  for  him  after  his  discharge  from  hospital,  and  see 
what  can  be  done ;  also  to  see  that  decent  body,  his  wife, 
after  my  rounds  to-morrow. 

M.  U.— Max  Urquhart— Max  Urquhart,  M.D.,  M.R.C.S. 

Who  keeps  scribbling  his  name  up  and  down  this  paper 
like  a  silly  scliool-boy,  just  for  want  of  something  to  do.     ^ 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  17 

Something  to  do !  never  for  these  twenty  years  and  more 
have  I  been  so  totally  without  occupation. 

What  a  place  this  camp  is !  Worse  than  ours  in  the 
Crimea,  by  far.  To-day  especially.  Rain  pouring,  wind 
howhng,  mud  ankle-deep ;  nothing  on  earth  for  me  to  be, 
to  do,  or  to  suffer,  except — yes !  there  is  something  to  suf- 
fer— Treherne's  eternal  flute. 

Faith,  I  must  be  very  hard  up  for  occupation  when  I 
thus  continue  this  journal  of  my  cases  into  a  personal  diary 
of  the  worst  patient  I  have  to  deal  with — the  most  thank- 
less, unsatisfactory,  and  unkindly.  Physician,  heal  thyself! 
But  how  ? 

I  shall  tear  out  this  page — or  stay,  I'll  keep  it  as  a  re- 
markable literary  and  psychological  fact — and  go  on  with 
my  article  on  Gunshot  Wounds. 

:s«  ^  ^  ^  H«  ♦  ♦ 

In  the  whi^h,  two  hours  after,  I  find  I  have  written  ex- 
actly ten  lines. 

These'  must  be  the  sort  of  circumstances  under  which 
people  commit  journals.  For  some  do — and  heartily  as  I 
have  always  contemned  the  proceedmg,  as  we  are  prone  to 
contemn  peculiarities  and  idiosyncrasies  quite  foreign  to 
our  own,  I  begin  to-day  dimly  to  understand  the  state  of 
mind  m  which  such  a  thing  might  be  possible. 

"  Diary  of  a  Physician"  shall  I  call  it  ?  Did  not  some 
one  write  a  book  with  that  title  ?  I  picked  it  up  on  ship- 
board— a  story-book  or  some  such  thing — ^but  I  scarcely 
ever  read  what  is  called  "  light  hterature."  I  have  never 
had  time.  Besides,  all  fictions  grow  tame  compared  to  the 
realities  of  daily  life,  the  horrible  episodes  of  crime,  the 
pitiful  bits  of  hopeless  misery  that  I  meet  with  in  my  pro- 
fession.    Talk  of  romance ! 

Was  I  ever  romantic  ?  Once^  perhaps.  Or  at  least  I 
might  have  been. 

My  profession,  truly  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  me. 
Therein  I  find  incessant  work,  interest,  hope.  Daily  do  I 
thank  heaven  that  I  had  courage  to  seize  on  it  and  go 
through  with  it,  in  order — according  to  the  phrase  I  heard 
used  last  night — "  to  save  life  instead  of  destroying  it." 

Poor  little  girl — she  meant  nothing — she  had  no  idea 
what  she  was  saying. 

Is  it  that  which  makes  me  so  unsettled  to-day  ? 

Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser  never  to  go  into  society.  A 
hospital  ward  is  far  more  natural  to  me  than  a  ball-room. 


18  A    LIFE   FOR    A    LIFE. 

There,  is  work  to  be  done,  pain  to  be  alleviated,  evil  of  all 
kinds  to  be  met  and  overcome — here,  nothing  but  pleasure, 
nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy. 

Yet  some  people  can  enjoy,  and  actually  do  so  ;  I  am 
sure  that  girl  did.  Several  times  during  the  evening  she 
looked  quite  happy.  I  do  not  often  see  people  looking 
happy. 

Is  suifering,  then,  our  normal  and  natural  state  ?     Is  to 

exist  synonymous  with  to  endure  ?     Can  this  be  the  law 

of  a  beneficent  Providence  ?  or  are  such  results  allowed  to 

happen  in  certain  exceptional  cases,  utterly  irremediable 

and  irretrievable,  like — 

What  am  I  w^riting  ?     What  am  I  daring  to  write  ? 
*  *  *  H«  *  ♦  * 

Fhysicia?!^  heal  thyself.  And  surely  that  is  one  of  a 
physician's  first  duties.  A  disease  struck  inward — the 
merest  tyro  knows  how  fatal  is  treatment  which  results  in 
that.  It  may  be  I  have  gone  on  the  wrong  track  altogether, 
at  least  since  my  return  to  England. 

The  present  only  is  a  man's  possession  ;  the  past  is  gone 
out  of  his  hand,  wholly,  irrevocably.  He  may  sufier  from 
it,  learn  from  it — in  degree,  perhaps,  expiate  it;  but  to 
brood  over  it  is  utter  madness. 

Now,  I  have  had  many  cases  of  insanity,  both  physical 
and  moral,  so  to  speak.  I  call  moral  insanity  that  kind  of 
disease  which  is  superinduced  on  comparatively  healthy 
minds  by  dwelling  incessantly  on  one  idea;  the  sort  of 
disease  which  you  find  in  women  who  have  fallen  into 
melancholy  from  love-disappointments ;  or  in  men  for  over- 
weening ambition,  hatred,  or  egotism — which  latter,  carried 
to  a  high  pitch,  invariably  becomes  a  kind  of  insanity.  All 
these  forms  of  monomania,  as  distinguished  from  physical 
mania,  disease  of  the  structure  of  the  brain,  I  have  studied 
with  considerable  interest  and  corresponding  success.  My 
secret  was  simjDle  enough ;  one  which  Nature  herself  often 
tries  and  rarely  fails  in — the  law  of  substitution ;  the  slow 
eradication  of  any  fixed  idea,  by  supplying  others,  under 
the  influence  of  which  the  original  idea  is,  at  all  events 
temporarily,  laid  to  sleep. 

Why  can  not  I  try  this  plan  ?  Why  not  do  for  myself 
what  I  have  so  many  times  prescribed  and  done  for  others  ? 

It  was  w^ith  some  notion  of  the  kmd  that  I  went  to  this 
baU,  after  getting  a  vague  sort  of  curiosity  m  Treherne's 
anonymous  beauty,  about  whom  he  has  so  long  been  raving 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  19 

to  me,  boy-like.     Ay,  with  all  his  folly,  the  lad  is  an  honest 
lad.     I  should  not  like  him  to  come  to  any  harm. 

The  tall  one  must  have  been  the  lady,  and  the  smaller, 
the  plainer,  though  the  pleasanter  to  my  mind,  was  no 
doubt  her  sister.  And,  of  course,  the  name  of  both  was 
Johnson. 

What  a  name  to  startle  a  man  so — to  cause  him  to  stand 
like  a  fool  at  that  hall  door,  with  his  heart  dead  still,  and 
all  his  nerves  quivering !  To  make  him  now,  in  the  mere 
writing  of  it,  pause  and  compel  himself  into  common  sense 
by  rational  argument — by  meeting  the  thing,  be  it  chimeri- 
cal or  not,  face  to  face,  as  a  man  ought  to  do.  Yet  as  cow- 
ardly, in  as  base  a  paroxysm  of  terror,  as  if  likewise  face  to 
face,  in  my  hut  corner,  stood — 

Here  I  stopped.  Shortly  afterward  I  was  summoned  to 
the  hospital  v/here  I  have  been  ever  since.  William  Carter 
is  dead.  He  will  not  want  his  mother  now.  What  a  small 
matter  life  or  death  seems  Avhen  one  comes  to  think  of  it. 
What  an  easy  exchange  ! 

Is  it  I  who  am  writing  thus,  and  on  the  same  leaf  which, 
closed  up  in  haste  when  I  was  fetched  to  the  hospital,  I 
have  just  had  such  an  anxious  search  for,  that  it  might  be 
instantly  burned  ?  Yet  I  find  there  is  nothing  in  it  that 
I  need  have  feared ;  nothing  that  could  in  any  way  have 
signified  to  any  body,  unless,  perhaps,  the  writing  of  that 
one  name. 

Shall  I  never  get  over  this  absurd  folly — this  absolute 
monomania ! — when  there  are  hundreds  of  the  same  name 
to  be  met  with  every  day ;  when,  after  all,  it  is  not  exactly 
the  name !         • 

Yet  this  is  what  it  cost  me.  Let  me  write  it  down,  that 
the  confession  in  plain  English  of  such  utter  insanity  may 
in  degree  have  the  same  effect  as  when  I  have  sat  down  and 
desired  a  patient  to  recount  to  me,  one  by  one,  each  and  all. 
of  his  delusions,  in  order  that,  in  the  mere  telling  of  them, 
they  might  perhaps  vanish. 

I  went  away  from  that  hall  door  at  once.  Never  asking, 
nor  do  I  think  for  my  life  I  could  ask  the  simj^le  question 
that  would  have  set  all  doubt  at  rest.  I  walked  across 
country,  up  and  down,  along  road  or  woodland,  I  hardly 
knew  whither,  for  miles,  following  the  moon-rise.  She 
seemed  to  rise  just  as  she  did  nineteen  years  ago — nineteen 
years,  ten  months,  all  but  two  days — my  arithmetic  is  cor- 
i%3ct,  no  fear !     She  lifted  herself  like  a  ghost  over  those 


20  A   LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE. 

long  level  waves  of  moor,  till  she  sat,  blood-red,  upon  the 
horizon,  with  a  stare  which  there  was  nothing  to  break, 
nothing  to  hide  from — nothing  between  her  and  me  but 
the  plain  and  the  sky — -just  as  it  was  that  night. 

What  am  I  writing?  Is  the  old  horror  coming  back 
again  ?     It  can  not.     It  must  be  kept  at  bay. 

A  knock — ah !  I  see ;  it  is  the  sergeant  of  poor  Carter's 
company.  I  must  return  to  daily  work,  and  labor  is  hfe — 
to  me. 


CHAPTER  III. 

HIS    STORY. 

Sept.  SOth.  l!^ot  a  case  to  set  down  to-day.  This  high 
moorland  is  your  best  sanatorium.  My  "occupation's 
gone." 

I  have  every  satisfaction  in  that  fact,  or  in  the  cause  of 
it ;  which,  cynics  might  say,  a  member  of  my  profession 
would  easily  manage  to  prevent,  were  he  a  city  physician 
instead  of  a  regunental  surgeon.  Still,  idleness  is  insup- 
portable to  me.  I  have  tried  going  about  among  the  few 
villages  hard  by,  but  their  worst  disease  is  one  to  which 
this  said  regimental  surgeon,  with  nothing  but  his  pay,  can 
apply  but  smaU.  remedy — poverty. 

To-day  I  have  paced  the  long,  straight  lines  of  the  camp ; 
from  the  hospital  to  the  bridge,  and  back  again  to  the  hos- 
pital ;  have  tried  to  take  a  vivid  interest  in  the  loungers, 
the  foot-ball  players,  and  the  wretched  awkward  squad 
turned  out  in  never-ending  parade.  With  each  hour  of  the 
quiet  autumn  afternoon  I  have  watched  the  sentinel  mount 
the  little  stockaded  hillock,  and  startle  the  camp  with  the 
old  famihar  boom  of  the  great  Sebastopol  bell.  Then,  I 
have  shut  my  hut  door,  taken  to  my  books,  and  studied  till 
my  head  warned  me  to  stop. 

The  evening  post-r-but  only  business  letters.  I  rarely 
have  any  other.  I  have  no  one  to  write  to  me — ^no  one  to 
write  to. 

Sometimes  I  have  been  driven  to  wish  I  had  ;  some  one 
friend  with  whom  it  would  be  possible  to  talk  in  pen  and 
mk,  on  other  matters  than  business.  Yet,  cui  bono  f  to  no 
friend  should  I  or  could  I  let  out  my  real  self:  the  only 
thing  in  the  letter  that  was  truly  and  absolutely  me  would 
be  the  great  grim  signature :  "  Max  Urquhart." 


A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  21 

Were  it  otherwise — were  there  any  human  being  to 
whom  I  could  lay  open  my  whole  heart,  trust  with  my 
whole  history ;  but  no,  that  were  utterly  impossible  now. 

^o  more  of  this. 

ISlo  more  imtil  the  end.  That  end,  which  at  once  solves 
all  difficulties,  every  year  brings  nearer.  Nearly  forty,  and 
a  doctor's  life  is  usually  shorter  than  most  men's.  I  shall 
be  an  old  man  soon,  even  if  there  come  none  of  those  sud- 
den chances  against  which  I  have  of  course  provided. 

The  end.  How  and  in  what  manner  it  is  to  be  done,  I  am 
not  yet  clear.    But  it  shall  be  done,  before  my  death  or  after. 

"  Max  Urquhart,  M.D." 

I  go  on  signing  my  name  mechanically  with  those  two^ 
business-like  letters  after  it,  and  thinking  how  odd  it  would 
be  to  sign  it  in  any  other  fashion.  How  strange — did  any 
one  care  to  look  at  my  signature,  in  any  way  except  thus, 
with  the  two  professional  letters  after  it — a  commonplace 
signature  of  business.  Equally  strange,  perhaps,  that  such 
a  thought  as  this  last  should  ever  have  entered  my  head,  or 
that  I  should  have  taken  the  trouble,  and  yielded  to  the 
weakness  of  wi'iting  it  down.  It  all  springs  from  idleness 
— sheer  idleness;  the  very  same  cause  that  makes  Tre- 
herne,  whom  I  have  known  do  duty  cheerily  for  twenty-four 
hours  in  the  trenches,  lounge,  smoke,  yawn,  and  j)lay  the 
flute.  There — ^it  has  stopped.  I  heard  the  postman  rap- 
IDing  at  his  hut  door — the  young  simpleton  has  got  a.  letter. 

Suppose,  just  to  pass  away  the  time,  I,  Max  Urquhart, 
reduced  to  this  lowest  ebb  of  inanity  by  a  j^aternal  govern- 
ment, which  has  stranded  my  regiment  here,  high  and  dry, 
but  as  dreary  as  Noah  on  Ararat — were  to  enhven  my 
solitude,  drive  away  blue  devils,  by  Manufacturing  for  my- 
self an  imaginary  correspondent  ?     So  be  it. 

To  begin  then  at  once  in  the  received  epistolary  form — 

"  My  dear— " 

My  dear— what?  "Sir?"  No— not  for  this  once.  I 
wanted  a  change.  "Madam?"  that  is  formal.  Shah  I  in- 
vent a  name  ? 

When  I  think  of  it,  how  strange  it  would  feel  to  me 
to  be  writing  "  my  dear"  before  any  Christian  name.  Or- 
i:)haned  early,  my  only  brother  long  dead,  drifting  about 
from  land  to  land  till  I  have  almost  forgotten  my  own, 
which  has  quite  forgotten  me — I  had  not  considered  it  be- 
fore, but  really  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  human  being  liv- 
ing whom  I  have  a  right  to  call  by  his  or  her  Christian 


22  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

name,  or  who  would  ever  think  of  calhng  me  by  mine. 
"Max" — I  have  not  heard  the  sound  of  it  for  years. 

Dear,  a  pleasant  adjective — my,  a  pronoun  of  possession, 
implying  that  the  being  spoken  of  is  one's  very  own — one's 
sole,  sacred,  personal  property,  as  with  natural  selfishness 
one  would  wish  to  hold  the  thing  most  precious.  3Iy  dear 
— a  satisfactory  total.  I  rather  object  to  ^^  dear  est, ^^  as  a 
word  implying  comparison,  and  therefore  never  to  be  used 
where  comparison  should  not  and  could  not  exist.  Wit- 
ness, "  dearest  mother,"  or  "  dearest  wife,"  as  if  a  man  had 
a  plurality  of  mothers  and  wives,  out  of  whom  he  chose  the 
one  he  loved  best.  And,  as  a  general  rule,  I  dislike  all  ul- 
tra expressions  of  affection  set  down  in  ink.  I  once  knew 
an  honest  gentleman — blessed  with  one  of  the  tenderest 
hearts  that  ever  man  had,  and  which  in  all  his  life  was  only 
given  to  one  woman ;  he,  his  wife  told  me,  had  never,  even 
in  their  courtship  days,  written  to  her  otherwise  than  as 
"  My  dear  Anne,"  ending  merely  with  "  Yours  faithfully," 
or  "  yours  truly."  Faithful — true — what  could  he  write, 
or  she  desire  more  ? 

If  my  pen  wanders  to  lovers  and  sweethearts,  and  mor- 
alizes over  simple  sentences  in  this  maundering  way,  blame 
not  me,  dear  imaginary  correspondent,  to  whom  no  name 
shall  be  given  at  all — ^but  blame  my  friend — as  friends  go 
in  this  world — Captain  Augustus  Treherne.  Because,  ha^^- 
pily,  that  young  fellow's  life  was  saved  at  Balaclava,  does  he 
intend  to  invest  me  with  the  responsibility  of  it,  with  all 
its  scrapes  and  follies,  now  and  forevermore  ?  Is  my  clean, 
sober  hut  to  be  fumigated  with  tobacco  and  poisoned  with 
brnndy  and  w^ater,  that  a  love-sick  youth  may  unburden 
himself  of  his  sentimeiftal  tale  ?  Heaven  knows  why  I  list- 
en to  it !  Probably  because  telling  me  keeps  the  lad  out 
of  mischief ;  also  because  he  is  honest,  though  an  ass,  and  I 
always  had  a  greater  leaning  to  fools  than  to  knaves.  But 
let  me  not  pretend  reasons  which  make  me  out  more  gen- 
erous than  I  really  am,  for  the  fellow  and  his  love-affair 
bore  me  exceedingly  sometimes,  and  would  be  quite  unen- 
^duraMe  any  where  but  in  this  dull  camj^.  I  do  it  for  a  cer- 
tain abstract  pleasure  which  I  have  always  taken  in  dissect- 
ing character,  constituting  myself  an  amateur  demonstrator 
of  spiritual  anatomy. 

An  amusing  study  is,  not  only  the  swain,  but  the  god- 
dess. For  I  found  her  out,  spelled  her  over  satisfactorily, 
even  in  that  one  evening.     Treherne  little  guessed  it — -he 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  23 

took  care  never  to  introduce  me — he  does  not  even  men- 
tion her  name,  or  suspect  I  know  it.  Vast  precautions 
against  nothing !  Does  he  fear  lest  Mentor  should  put  in 
a  claim  to  his  Eucharis  ?  You  know  better,  dear  Imagm- 
ary  Correspondent. 

Even  were  I  among  the  list  of  "  marrying  men,"  this 
adorable  she  would  never  be  my  choice ;  would  never  at- 
tract me  for  an  instant.  Little  as  I  know  about  women,  I 
know  enough  to  feel  certain  that  there  is  a  very  small  re- 
siduum of  depth,  feeling,  or  originality  in  that  large  hand- 
some physique  of  hers.  Yet  she  looks  good-natured,  good- 
tempered  ;  almost  as  much  so  as  Treherne  himself. 

"  Speak  o'  the  de'il,"  there  he  comes.  Far  away  dovvm 
the  lines  I  can  catch  his  eternal  "Donna  e  Mobile" — ^how 
I  detest  that  song !  Xo  doubt  he  has  been  taking  to  the 
post  his  answer  to  one  of  those  abominably-scented  notes 
that  he  always  drops  out  of  his  waistcoat  by  the  merest 
accident,  and  glances  round  to  see  if  I  am  looking,  which  I 
never  am.  What  a  young  puppy  it  is !  Yet  it  hangs  aft- 
er one  kindly,  like  a  puppy ;  after  me  too,  who  am  not  the 
pleasantest  fellow  in  the  world ;  and,  as  it  is  but  young,  it 
'may  mend  if  it  falls  into  no  worse  company  than  the  pres- 
ent. 

I  have  known  what  it  is  to  be  without  a  friend  when  one 
is  very  inexperienced,  reckless,  and  young. 

Evening. 
"  To  what  base  uses  may  we  come  at  last." 

It  seems  perfectly  ridiculous  to  see  the  use  this  memo- 
randum-book has  come  to.  Cases  forsooth !  The  few  pages 
of  them  may  as  well  be  torn  out  in  favor  of  the  new  speci- 
mens of  moral  disease  which  I  am  driven  to  study.  For 
instance : 

ISTo.  1.  Better  omit  that. 

[N'o.  2.  Augustus  Treherne,  set.  22,  intermittent  fever, 
verging  upon  yellow  fever  occasionally,  as  to-day.  Pulse 
very  high,  tongue  rather  foul,  es23ecially  in  speaking  of  Mi\ 
Colin  Granton.  Countenance  pale,  inclining  to  livid.  A 
bad  case  altogether. 

Patient  enters,  whistling  like  a  steam-engine,  as  furious 
and  as  shrill,  with  a  corresponding  puff  of  smoke.  I  point 
to  the  obnoxious  vapor. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Doctor,  I  always  forget.  Y»"hat  a  tyrant 
you  are !" 

"Very  likely;  but  there  is  one  tiling  I  never  will  allow 


24  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFE. 

— smoking  in  my  hut.  I  did  not,  you  know,  even  in  the 
Crimea." 

The  lad  sat  down,'  sighing  hke  a  furnace. 

"  Ileigho,  Doctor,  I  wish  I  were  you." 

"Do  you?" 

"You  always  seem  so  uncommonly  comfortable;  never 
want  a  cigar  or  any  thing  to  quiet  nerves  and  keep  you  in 
good-humor.  You  never  get  into  a  scrape  of  any  sort; 
have  neither  a  mother  to  lecture  you  nor  an  old  governor 
to  bully  you." 

"  Stop  there." 

"  I  will,  then ;  you  need  not  take  me  up  so  sharp.  He's 
a  trump  after  all.  You  Imow  that,  so  I  don't  mind  a  word 
or  two  against  him.     Just  read  there." 

He  threw  over  one  of  Sir  Wilham's  ultra-prosy  moral 
essays,  which  no  doubt  the  worthy  old  gentleman  flatters 
himself  are,  in  another  Ime,  the  very  copy  of  Lord  Chester- 
field's letters  to  his  son.  I  might  have  smiled  at  it  had  I 
been  alone,  or  laughed  at  it  were  I  young  enough  to  sympa- 
thize with  the  modern  system  of  transposing  into  "  the  gov- 
ernor" the  ancient  reverend  name  of  "  father." 

"  You  see  what  an  opinion  he  has  of  you.  'Pon  my  life, 
if  I  were  not  the  meekest  fellow  imaginable,  always  ready 
to  be  led  by  a  straw  into  Virtue's  ways,  I  should  have  cut 
your  acquaintance  long  ago.  '  Invariably  follow  the  advice 
of  Doctor  TJrquhart' — 'I  wish,  my  dear  son,  that  your 
character  more  resembled  that  of  your  friend  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart.  I  should  be  more  concerned  about  your  many  fol- 
lies were  you  not  in  the  same  regiment  as  Doctor  IJrqu- 
^hart.  Doctor  Urquhart  is  one  of  the  wisest  men  I  ever 
knew,'  and  so  on,  and  so  on.     What  say  you  ?" 

I  said  nothing ;  and  I  now  write  down  this,  as  I  shall 
write  any  thing  of  the  kind  which  enters  into  the  j^lam  re- 
lation of  facts  or  conversations  which  daily  occur.  God 
knows  how  vain  such  words  are  to  me  at  the  best  of  times 
— mere  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal — as  the  like 
must  be  to  most  men  well  acquainted  with  themselves. 
At  some  times,  and  under  certain  states  of  mind,  they  be- 
come to  my  ear  the  most  refined  and  exquisite  torture  that 
my  bitterest  enemy  could  desire  to  infiict.  There  is  no 
need,  therefore,  to  apologize  for  them.  Apologize  to  whom, 
indeed  ?  Having  resolved  to  write  this,  it  were  folly  to 
make  it  an  imperfect  statement.  A  journal  should  be  fresh, 
complete,  and  correct — the  man's  entire  life,  or  nothing ; 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  25 

since,  if  he  sets  it  clown  at  all,  it  must  necessarily  be  for  Ms 
own  sole  benefit ;  it  would  be  the  most  contemptible  form 
of  egotistic  humbug  to  arrange  and  modify  it,  as  if  it  were 
meant  for  the  eye  of  any  other  person. 

Dear,  unknown,  imagmary  eye — which  never  was  and 
never  mil  be — yet,  which  I  like  to  fancy  shining  somewhere 
in  the  clouds,  out  of  Jupiter,  Yenus,  or  the  Georgium  Sidus, 
upon  this  sohtary  me — the  foregoing  sentence  bears  no  ref- 
erence to  you. 

"  Treherne,"  I  said,  "  whatever  good  opinion  your  father 
is  pleased  to  hold  as  to  my  wisdom,  I  certainly  do  not  share 
m  one  juvenile  folly — that,  being  a  very  well-meaning  fel- 
low on  the  whole,  I  take  the  greatest  pains  to  make  myself 
out  a  scamp." 

The  youth  colored. 

"  That's  me,  of  course." 

"  Wear  the  cap  if  it  feels  comfortable.  And  now,  will 
you  have  some  tea  ?" 

"  Any  thing ;  I  feel  as  thirsty  as  when  you  found  me 
dragging  myself  to  the  brink  of  the  Tchernaya.  Hey,  Doc- 
tor, it  would  have  saved  me  a  deal  of  bother  if  you  had 
never  found  me  at  all,  except  that  it  would  vex  the  old  gov- 
ernor to  end  the  name  and  have  the  property  aU  going  to 
the  dogs — that  is,  to  Cousin  Charteris,  who  would  not  care 
how  soon  I  was  dead  and  buried." 

"  Were  dead  and  buried,  if  you  please." 

"  Confound  it,  to  stop  a  man  about  his  grammar  when  he 
is  in  my  state  of  mind !  Kept  from  his  cigar  too !  Doctor, 
you  never  were  in  love,  or  a  smoker."  , 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

''  Because  you  never  could  have  given  up  the  one  or  the 
other  ;  a  fellow  can't ;  'tis  an  impossibility." 

"  Is  it  ?     I  once  smoked  six  cigars  a  day  for  two  years." 

"  Eh !  what  ?  And  you  never  let  that  out  before  ?  You 
are  so  close.  Possibly  the  other  fact  will  peep  out  in  time. 
Mrs.  Urquhart  and  half  a  dozen  brats  may  be  living  in  some 
out-of-the-way  nook — Cornwall,  or  Jersey,  or  the  centre  of 
Salisbmy  Plain.  Why,  what?  nay,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Doctor," 

What  a  horrible  thing  it  is  that  by  no  physical  effort,  add- 
ed to  years  of  mental  self-control,  can  I  so  harden  my  nerves 
that  certain  words,  names,  suggestions,  shall  not  startle  me 
• — make  me  quiver  as  under  the  knife.  Doubtless  Treherne 
will  henceforth  retam,  so  far  as  his  easy  mind  can  retain 

B 


26  A   LIFE    FOIl    A   LIFE. 

any  thing,  the  idea  that  I  have  a  wife  and  family  hidden 
somewhere.  Ludicrous  idea!  if  it  were  not  connected 
with  other  ideas,  from  which,  however,  this  one  will  serve 
to  turn  his  mind. 

To  explain  it  away  was  of  course  impossible.  I  had  only 
power  to  slip  fi-om  the  subject  with  a  laugh,  and  bring  him 
back  to  the  tobacco  question. 

"  Yes ;  I  smoked  six  cigars  a  day  for  at  least  two  years." 

"  And  gave  it  up  ?    Wonderful !" 

"Not  very,  when  a  man  has  a  will  of  his  own,  and  a  few 
strong  reasons  to  back  it." 

"  Out  with  them — not  that  they  will  benefit  me,  how- 
ever— ^I'm  quite  incorrigible." 

"  Doubtless.  First,  I  was  a  poor  medical  student,  and 
six  cigars  'per  dietn  cost  fourteen  shillings  a  week — thirty- 
one  pounds  eight  shillings  a  year.  A  good  sum  to  give 
for  an  artificial  want — enough  to  have  fed  and  clothed  a 
child." 

"  You're  weak  on  the  point  of  brats,  Urquhart.  Do  you 
remember  the  little  Kuss  we  picked  up  in  the  cellar  at  Se- 
bastopol  ?  I  do  believe  you'd  have  adopted  and  brought 
it  home  with  you  if  it  had  not  died." 

Should  I  ?     But,  as  Treherne  said,  it  died. 

"  Secondly,  thirty-one  pounds  eight  shilhngs  per  annum 
was  a  good  deal  to  give  for  a  purely  selfish  enjoyment,  an- 
noying to  almost  every  body  except  the  smoker,  and  at  the 
time  of  smoking — especially  when  with  the  said  smoker  it 
is  sure  to  grow  from  a  mere  accidental  enjoyment  into  an 
irresistible  necessity — a  habit  to  which  he  becomes  the 
most  u1?ter  slave.  N'ow,  a  man  is  only  half  a  man  who  al- 
lows himself  to  become  a  slave  of  any  habit  whatsoever." 

"  Bravo,  Doctor !  all  this  should  go  into  the  LancetP 

"  [N'o,  for  it  does  not  touch  the  question  on  the  medical 
side,  but  the  general  and  practical  one — ^namely,  that  to 
create  an  unnecessary  luxury,  which  is  a  nuisance  to  every 
body  else,  and  to  himself  of  very  doubtful  benefit,  is — ex- 
cuse me — the  very  silliest  thing  a  young  man  can  do.  A 
thing  which,  from  my  own  experience,  I'll  not  aid  and 
abet  any  young  man  in  doing.  There,  lecture's  over — 
kettle  boiled — unless  you  prefer  tobacco  and  the  open 
air." 

He  did  not ;  and  we  sat  down, "  four  feet  upon  a  fender," 
as  the  proverb  says. 

"  Heigho !  but  the  proverb  doesn't  mean  four  feet  iia 


A   LITE    FOE   A   LIFE.  27 

men's  boots,"  said  Treherne,  dolefully.  "I  wish  I  was 
dead  and  buried." 

I  suggested  that  the  hght  mustache  he  curled  so  fondly, 
the  elegant  hair,  and  the  aristocratic  outline  of  phiz,  would 
look  exceedingly  well — in  a  coffin. 

"  Faugh !  how  impleasant  you  are." 

And  I  myself  repented  the  speech ;  for  it  ill  becomes  a 
man  under  any  provocation  to  make  a  jest  of  death.  But 
that  this  young  fellow,  so  full  of  life,  with  every  attraction 
that  it  can  offer — health,  wealth,  kindred,  friends — should 
sit  croaking  there,  with  such  a  used-up,  lack-a-daisical  air, 
truly  it  irritated  me. 

"  What's  the  matter,  that  you  wish  to  rid  the  world  of 
your  valuable  presence  ?  Has  the  young  lady  expressed  a 
similar  desire  ?" 

"  She  ?  hang  her !  I  won't  think  any  more  about  her," 
said  the  lad,  sullenly.  And  then  out  poured  the  grand  de-. 
spair,  the  unendurable  climax  of  mortal  woe.  "  She  canter. 
ed  through  the  north  camp  this  afternoon  with  Granton, 
Colin  Granton,  and  upon  Granton's  own  brown  mare." 

"  Ha !  horrible  vision !     And  you  ?  you 

'  Watched  them  go  :  one  horse  was  blind ; 
The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind. 
Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet.'  " 

"Doctor!" 

I  stopped — there  seemed  more  reahty  in  his  feelings  than 
I  had  been  aware  of;  and  it  is  scarcely  right  to  make  a 
mock  of  even  the  fire-and-smoke,  dust-and-ashes  passion  of 
a  boy. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  not  knowing  the  affair  had  gone  so 
far.     Still,  it  isn't  worth  being  dead  and  buried  for." 

"  What  business  has  she  to  go  riding  with  that  big  clod- 
hopping  lout?  And  what  right  has  he  to  lend  her  his 
brown  mare?"  chafed  Treherne,  with  a  great  deal  more 
which  I  did  not  much  attend  to.  At  last,  weary  of  playv 
ing  Friar  Lawrence  to  such  a  very  uninteresting  Romeo,  1 
hinted  that  if  he  disapproved  of  the  young  lady's  behavior 
he  ought  to  appeal  to  her  own  good  sense,  to  her  father,  or 
somebody— or,  since  women  understand  one  another  best, 
get  Lady  Augusta  Treherne  to  do  it. 

'^  My  mother  !  She  never  even  heard  of  her.  Why,  you 
speak  as  seriously  as  if  I  were  actually  intending  to  marry 
her." 

Here  I  could  not  help  rousing  myself  a  trifle. 


25  A    LIFl!}   FOIi    A    LIFEo       ' 

"  Excuse  me ;  it  never  struck  me  that  a  gentleman  could 
discuss  a  young  lady  among  his  acquaintance,  make  a  pub- 
lic show  of  his  admiration  for  her,  interfere  with  hei*  pro- 
ceedings or  her  conduct  toward  any  other  gentleman,  and 
not  intend  to  marry  her.  Suppose  we  choose  another  sub- 
ject of  conversation." 

Treherne  grew  hot  to  the  ears,  but  he  took  the  hint  and 
spared  me  his  sentimental  maunderings. 

We  had  afterward  some  mteresting  conversation  about 
a  few  cases  of  mine  m  the  neighborhood,  not  on  the  regular 
list  of  regimental  patients,  which  have  lately  been  to  me  a 
curious  study.  If  I  were  inchned  to  quit  the  army,  I  be- 
lieve the  branch  of  my  profession  which  I  should  take  up 
would  be  that  of  sanitary  reform — the  study  of  health 
rather  than  of  disease,  of  prevention  rather  than  cure.  ■  It 
often  seems  to  me  that  we  of  the  healing  art  have  begun 
at  the  wi'ong  end,  that  the  energy  we  devote  to  the  allevia- 
tion of  irremediable  disease  would  be  better  spent  in  the 
study  and  practice  of  means  to  preserve  health. 

Thus,  I  tried  to  explain  to  Treherne,  who  will  have  plen- 
ty of  money  and  influence,  and  whom,  therefore,  it  is  worth 
while  taking  pains  to  inoculate  with  a  few  useful  facts  and 
ideas,  that  one  half  of  our  mortality  in  the  Crimea  was 
owing,  not  to  the  accidents  of  war,  but  to  the  results  of 
zpnotic  diseases,  all  of  which  might  have  been  prevented 
by  common  sense  and  common  knowledge  of  the  laws  of 
health,  as  the  statistics  of  our  sanitary  commission  have 
abundantly  proved. 

And,  as  I  told  him,  it  saddens  me,  almost  as  much  as 
domg  my  duty  on  a  battle-field,  or  at  Scutari,  or  Renkioi, 
to  take  these  amateur  rounds  in  safe  England,  among  what 
poets  and  politicians  call  the  noble  British  peasantry,  and 
see  the  frightful  sacrifice  of  hfe — and  worse  than  fife — ^from 
causes  perfectly  remediable. 

Take,  for  instance,  these  cases,  as  set  down  m  my  note- 
book. 

Amos  Fell,  40,  or  thereabouts,  down  with  fever  for  ten- 
days  ;  wife  and  five  sons ;  occupy  one  room  of  a  cottage  on 
the  Moor,  which  holds  two  other  families ;  says,  would  be 
glad  to  live  in  a  better  place,  but  can  not  get  it;  landlord 
will  not  allov/  more  cottages  to  be  built.  Would  buUd 
himself  a  peat  hut,  but  doubts  if  that  would  be  permitted ; 
so  just  goes  on  as  well  as  he  can. 

Peck  family,  fever  also,  livmg  at  the  filthiest  end  of  the 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  29 

Tillage ;  themselves  about  the  dirtiest  in  it ;  with  a  stream 
rushing  by  fresh  enough  to  wash  and  cleanse  a  whole 

tO^Tl. 

Widow  Haynes,  rheumatism,  from  field-work,  and  living 
in  a  damp  room  with  earthen  floor,  half  underground ;  de- 
cent woman,  gets  half  a  crown  a  week  from  the  j^arish ;  but 
will  not  be  able  to  earn  any  thing  for  months  ;  and  what  is 
to  become  of  all  the  children  ? 

Treherne  settled  that  question,  and  one  or  two  more; 
poor  fellow,  his  purse  is  as  open  as  his  heart  just  now ;  but 
among  his  other  luxuries  he  may  as  well  taste  the  luxury 
of  giving.  'Tis  good  for  him ;  he  will  be  Sir  Augustus 
one  of  these  days.  Is  his  goddess  aware  of  that  fact,  I 
wonder  ? 

What !  is  cynicism  growing  to  be  one  of  my  vices  ?  and 
against  a  woman  too  ?  One  of  whom  I  absolutely  know 
nothmg,  except  watching  her  for  a  few  moments  at  a  bail. 
She  seems  to  be  one  of  the  usual  sort  of  oflicers'  belles  in 
coimtry  quarters.  Yet  there  may  be  something  good  in 
her.  There  was,  I  feel  sure,  in  that  large-eyed  sister  of 
hers.  But  let  me  not  judge-— I  have  never  had  any  oppor- 
tunity of  miderstanding  women. 

This  subject  was  not  revived,  till,  the  tobacco-hunger 
proving  too  strong  for  him,  my  friend  Romeo  began  to 
fidget,  and  finally  rose. 

"I  say.  Doctor,  you  won't  tell  the  governor — ^it  would 
put  him  in  an  awful  fume  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh !  about  Miss ,  you  know.     I've  been  a  great 

ass,  I  suppose,  but  when  a  gM  is  so  civil  to  one — a  fine  girl, 
too — you  saw  her,  did  you  not,  dancing  with  me  ?  Now, 
isn't  she  an  uncommonly  fine  girl  ?" 

I  assented. 

"  And  that  Granton  should  get  her,  confound  hun !  a  great 
logger-headed  country  clown." 

"  Who  is  an  honest  man  and  will  make  her  a  kind  hus- 
band. Any  other  honest  man  who  does  not  mean  to  ofler 
himself  as  her  husband,  had  much  better  avoid  her  acquaint- 
ance." 

Treherne  colored  again :  I  saw  he  understood  me,  though 
he  turned  it  oif  with  a  laugh. 

"  You're  preaching  matrimony,  Doctor,  surely.  What  an 
idea !  to  tie  myself  up  at  hiy  age.  I  shan't  do  the  ungen- 
tlemanly  thing  either.     So  <?;oon-!r*a'l'^~  ^•^<"!  H'^ovr." 


30  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFE. 

He  lounged  out,  with  that  lazy,  self-satisfied  air  which  is 
misnamed  aristocratic.  Yet  I  have  seen  many  a  one  of 
these  conceited,  efteminate-looking,  drawing-room  darhngs, 
a  curled  and  scented  modern  Alcibiades — fight — like  Al- 
cibiades;  and  die — as  no  Greek  ever  could  die — ^like  a 
Briton. 

"  Ungentlemanly" — what  a  word  it  is  with  most  men, 
especially  in  the  mihtary  profession.  Gentlemanly — ^the 
root  and  apex  of  all  honor.  Ungentlemanly — the  lowest 
term  of  degradation.  Such  is  our  code  of  morals  in  the 
army ;  and,  more  or  less,  probably  every  where. 

Aji  ofiScer  I  knew,  who,  for  all  I  ever  heard  or  noticed, 
was  himself  as  true  a  gentleman  as  ever  breathed ;  polished, 
kindly,  manly,  and  brave,  gave  me  once,  in  an  argument  on 
duehng,  his  definition  of  the  word.  '■'■  A  gentleman''^ — one 
who  never  does  any  thing  he  is  ashamed  of,  or  that  would 
compromise  his  honor. 

Worldly  honor,  this  colonel  must  have  meant,  for  he  con- 
sidered it  would  have  been  compromised  by  a  man's  refus- 
ing to  accept  a  challenge.  That  "  honor"  surely  was  a  little 
lower  thing  than  virtue ;  a  little  less  pure  than  the  Christian- 
ity which  aU  of  us  profess,  and  so  few  believe.  Yet  there 
was  something  at  once  touching  and  heroic  about  it,  and  in 
the  way  this  man  of  the  world  upheld  it.  The  best  of  our 
British  chivalry — as  chivalry  goes — is  made  up  of  materials 
such  as  these. 

But  is  there  not  a  higher  morality — a  diviner  honor? 
And  if  so,  who  is  he  that  can  find  it  ? 


CHAPTER  lY. 

HER    STOEY. 

'Tis  over — ^the  weary  dmner-party.  I  can  lock  myself  in 
here,  take  ofiT  my  dress,  pull  down  my  hair,  clasp  my  two 
bare  arms  one  on  each  shoulder — such  a  comfortable  atti- 
tude !  and  stare  into  the  fire. 

There  is  something  peculiar  about  our  fires.  Most  likely 
the  quantity  of  fir-wood  we  use  for  this  region  gives  them 
that  curious  aromatic  smell.  Hoav  I  love  fir-trees  of  any 
soi't  in  any  season  of  the  year!  How  I  used  to  delight 
myself  in  our  pine-woods,  strolling  in  and  out  among  the 
boles  of  the  trees,  so  straight,  strong,  and  unchangeable — 


A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE.  »^  31 

grave  in  summer,  and  greefi  in  winter !  How  I  have  stood 
listening  to  the  wind  in  their  tops,  and  looking  for  the  fir- 
cones, wonderful  treasm*es !  which  they  had  dropped  on 
the  soft,  dry,  mossy  ground.  What  glorious  fun  it  was  to 
fill  my  pinafore — or  in  more  dignified  days — my  black  silk 
apron — mth  fii'-cones ;  to  heap  a  smTeptitious  store  of  them 
in  a  corner  of  the  school-room,  and  burn  them,  one  by  one, 
on  the  top  of  the  fire.     How  they  did  blaze  ! 

I  think  I  should  almost  like  to  go  hunting  for  fir-cones 
now.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  more  amusing  than  dinner- 
j)arties. 

Why  did  we  give  this  dinner,  which  cost  so  much  time, 
trouble,  and  money,  and  was  so  very  dull?  At  least  I 
thought  so.  Why  should  we  always  be  obhged  to  have  a 
dinner-party  when  Francis  is  here  ?  As  if  he  could  not  ex- 
ist a  week  at  Rockmount  without  other  people's  company 
than  om's !  It  used  not  to  be  so. '  ■  When  I  was  a  child,  I 
remember  he  never  wanted  to  go  any  where,  or  have  any 
body  coming  here.  After  study  was  over  (and  papa  did 
not  keep  him  very  close  either),  he  cared  for  nothing  ex- 
cept to  saunter  about  with  Penelope.  What  a  nuisance 
those  two  used  to  be  to  us  younger  ones ;  always  sending 
us  out  of  the  room  on  some  pretense,  or  taking  us  long 
walks  and  losing  us,  and  then — crudest  of  all — ^keeping  us 
waiting  indefinitely  for  dinner.  Always  making  so  much 
of  one  another,  and  taking  no  notice  of  us ;  having  little 
squabbles  with  one  another,  and  then  snubbing  us.  The 
great  bore  of  our  lives  was  that  love-afiair  of  Francis  and 
Penelope ;  and  the  only  consolation  we  had,  Lisabel  and  I, 
was  to  plan  the  wedding,  she  to  settle  the  bridesmaids' 
dresses,  and  I  thinking  how  grand  it  would  be  when  all  is 
over,  and  I  took  the  head  of  the  table,  the  warm  place  in 
the  room,  permanently,  as  Miss  Jolmston. 

Poor  Penelope !  She  is  Miss  Johnston  still,  and  hkely  to 
be,  for  all  that  I  can  see.  I  should  not  wonder  if,  after  aU, 
it  happened  in  ours  as  in  many  families,  that  the  youngest 
is  married  first. 

Lisabel  vexed  me  much  to-day ;  more  than  usual.  Peo- 
ple will  surely  begin  to  talk  about  her ;  not  that  I  care  a 
pin  for  any  gossip,  but  it's  wrong,  wrong.  A  girl  can't 
like  two  gentlemen  so  equally  that  she  treats  them  exactly 
in  the  same  manner — unless  it  chances  to  be  the  manner  of 
benevolent  indifference.  But  Lisabel's  is  not  that.  Every 
day  I  watch  her,  and  say  to  myself,  "  She's  surely  fond  of 


32  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

that  young  man  f  whicli  alwajis  happens  to  be  the  young 
man  nearest  to  her,  whether  Captain  Treherne,  or  "my 
Cohn,"  as  his  mother  calls  him.  What  a  lot  of  "  beaux'' 
om*  Lisa  has  had  ever  since  she  was  fourteen,  yet  not  one 
"  lover"  that  ever  I  heard  of — as  of  course  I  should,  together 
with  her  half-dozen  very  particular  friends.  No  one  can 
accuse  Lis  of  being  of  a  secretive  disposition. 

What,  am  I  growing  ill-natured,  and  to  my  own  sister  ? 
a  good-tempered,  harmless  girl,  who  makes  herself  agreea- 
ble to  every  body,  and  whom  every  body  likes  a  vast  deal 
better  than  they  do  me. 

Sometimes,  sitting  over  this  fire,  with  the  fir-twigs  crack- 
ling and  the  turpentine  blazing — ^it  may  be  an  odd  taste,  but 
I  have  a  real  pleasure  in  the  smell  of  turpentine — I  take  my- 
self into  serious,  sad  consideration. 

Theodora  Johnston,  aged  twenty-five;  mediiun  looks, 
medium  talents,  medium  temper ;  m  every  way  the  essence 
of  mediocrity.  This  is  what  I  have  gradually  discovered 
myself  to  be ;  I  did  not  think  so  always. 

Theodora  Johnston,  aged  fifteen.  What  a  different  crea- 
ture that  was.  I  can  bring  it  back  now,  with  its  long  curls 
and  its  short  frocks — by  Penelope's  orders  preserved  as 
late  as  possible — running  wild  over  the  moors,  or  hiding 
itself  in  the  garden  with  a  book ;  or  curling  up  in  a  corner 
of  this  attic,  then  unfurnished,  with  a  pencil  and  the  back 
of  a  letter,  wi'iting  its  silly  poetry.  Thinking,  planning, 
dreaming,  looking  forward  to  such  a  wonderful,  impossible 
life ;  quite  satisfied  of  itself  and  all  it  was  to  do  therein, 
since 

The  world  was  all  before  it  where  to  choose  : 
Eeason  its  guard,  and  Providence  its  guide. 

And  what  has  it  done  ?  Nothing.  What  is  it  now  ? 
The  aforesaid  Theodora  Johnston,  aged  twenty-five. 

Moralists  tell  us,  self-examination  is  a  great  virtue,  an  in- 
dispensable duty.  I  don't  believe  it.  Generally,  it  is  ut- 
terly useless,  hopeless,  and  unprofitable.  Much  of  it  springs 
from  the  very  egotism  it  pretends  to  cure.  There  are  not 
more  conceited  hypocrites  on  earth  than  many  of  your 
"  miserable  sinners." 

If  I  can  not  think  of  something  or  somebody  better  than 
myselfl  will  just  give  up  thinking  altogether:  will  pass  en- 
tirely to  the  ujopermost  of  my  two  lives,  which  I  have  now 
made  to  tally  so  successfully  that  they  seem  of  one  mate- 
rial :  like  our  girls'  new  cloaks,  which  every  body  imagines 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  33 

sober  gray,  till  a  lifting  of  the  arms  shows  the  other  side 
of  the  cloth  to  be  scarlet. 

That  reminds  me  in  what  a  blaze  of  scarlet  Captain  Tre- 
herne  appeared  at  our  modest  dinner-table.  He  was  en- 
gaged to  a  full-dress  party  at  the  camp,  he  said,  and  must 
leave  immediately  after  dinner — which  he  didn't.  Was  his 
company  much  missed,  I  wonder  ?  Two  here  could  well 
have  spared  it ;  and  these  vf  ere  Colin  Granton  and  Francis 
Charteris. 

How  odd  that  mitil  to-night  Captain  Treherne  should 
have  had  no  notion  that  his  cousin  was  engaged  to  our  Pe- 
nelope, or  even  visited  at  Rockmomit.  Odd,  too,  that  other 
people  never  told  him.  But  it  is  such  an  old  affair,  and  we 
were  not  likely  to  make  the  solemn  communication  our- 
selves ;  besides,  we  never  knew  much  about  the  youth,  ex- 
cept that  he  was  one  of  Francis's  fine  relations.  Yet,  to 
think  that  Francis  all  these  years  should  never  have  even 
hinted  to  these  said  fine  relations  that  he  was  engaged  to 
our  Penelope. 

If  I  were  Penelope — ^but  I  have  no  business  to  judge  other 
people.     I  never  was  in  love,  they  say. 

To  see  the  meeting  between  these  two  was  quite  dra- 
matic, and  as  funny  as  a  farce.  Francis  sitting  on  the  sofa 
by  Penelope,  talking  to  Mrs.  Granton  and  her  friend  Miss 
Emery,  and  doing  a  little  bit  of  lazy  love-making  between 
whiles ;  when  enters,  late  and  hurried,  Captain  Treherne. 
He  walks  straight  up  to  papa,  specially  attentive ;  then  bows 
to  Lisabel,  specially  distant  and  unattentive  (I  thought, 
though,  at  sight  of  her  he  grew  as  hot  as  if  his  regimental 
collar  were  choking  him) ;  then  hastens  to  pay  his  respects 
to  Miss  Johnston,  when  lo !  he  beholds  Mr.  Francis  Char- 
teris. 

"  Charteris  !  what  the — what  a  very  unexpected  pleas- 
m-e !" 

Francis  shook  hands  in  what  we  call  his  usual  fascinating 
manner. 

"Miss  Johnston!"  in  his  surprise  Captain  Treherne  had 
quite  forgotten  her — "  I  really  beg  your  pardon.  I  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  you  were  acquainted  with  my  cousin." 
N"or  did  the  youth  seem  particularly  pleased  with  the  dis- 
covery. 

Penelope  glanced  sharply  at  Francis,  and  then  said — 

How  did  she  manage  to  say  it  so  sharply  and  composed- 

ly?- 


34  A   LIFE   FOil   A   LIFE.  / 

"  Oh  yes,  we  have  known  Mr.  Charteris  for  a  good  many 
years.  Can  you  find  room  for  yom*  cousin  on  the  sofa,  Fran- 
cis?" 

At  the  "  Francis,"  Captain  Treherne  stared,  and  made 
some  remarks  in  an  abstract  and  abstracted  manner.  At 
length,  when  he  had  placed  himself  right  between  Francis 
and  Penelope  and  was  actually  going  to  take  Penelope  down 
to  dinner,  a  light  seemed  to  break  upon  him.  He  laughed 
— gave  way  to  his  cousin — and  condescended  to  bestow  his 
scarlet  elbow  upon  me ;  saying,  as  we  went  across  the  hall : 

"  Pm  afraid  I  was  near  makuig  a  blunder  there.  But 
who  would  have  thought  it  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

"  About  those,  there.  I  knew  your  sister  was  engaged 
to  somebody — ^but  Charteris !  Who  would  have  thought  of 
Charteris  going  to  be  married  ?     What  a  ridiculous  idea." 

I  said,  that  the  fact  had  ceased  to  appear  so  to  me,  hav- 
ing been  aware  of  it  for  the  last  ten  years. 

"  Ten  years !  You  don't  say  so !"  And  then  his  slow 
perception  catching  the  extreme  incivihty  of  this  great  as- 
tonishment— ^my  scarlet  friend  offered  lame  congratulations, 
fell  to  his  dinner,  and  conversed  no  more. 

Perhaps  he  forgot  the  matter  altogether — for  Lisabel  sat 
opposite,  beside  Colin  Granton — and  what  between  love 
and  hate  my  cavalier's  attention  was  very  much  distracted. 
Truly,  Lisabel  and  her  unfortunate  swains  reminded  me  of 
a  passage  in  "Thomson's  Seasons"  describing  two  young 
bulls  fighting  in  a  meadow : 

''While  the  fair  heifer  balmy-breathing  near, 
Stands  kindling  iip  their  rage." 

I  blush  to  set  it  down.  I  blush  almost  to  have  such  a 
thought,  and  concerning  my  own  sister ;  yet  it  is  so,  and  I 
have  seen  the  like  often  and  often.  Surely  it  must  be 
wrong ;  such  sacred  things  as  women's  beauty  and  women's 
love  were  not  made  to  set  men  mad  at  one  another  like 
brute  beasts.  Surely  the  woman  could  help  it  if  she  chose. 
Men  may  be  jealous,  and  cross,  and  wretched ;  but  they  do 
not  absolutely  hate  one  another  on  a  woman's  account  un- 
less she  has  been  in  some  degree  to  blame.  While  free, 
and  showmg  no  preference,  no  one  can  well  fight  about  her, 
for  all  have  an  equal  chance :  when  she  has  a  preference, 
though  she  might  not  openly  show  it  toward  its  object,  she 
certainly  would  never  think  of  showing  it  toward  any  body 
else.     At  least,  that  is  my  theory". 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  35 

However,  I  am  taking  the  thing  too  seriously,  and  it  is 
no  affair  of  mine.  I  have  given  np  interfering  long  ago. 
Lisabel  must  "gang  her  ain  gate,"  as  they  say  in  Scotland. 
By-the-by,  Captain  Treherne  asked  me  if  we  came  from 
Scotland,  or  were  of  the  celebrated  clan  Johnstone  ? 

Time  was  when,  in  spite  of  the  additional  t^  we  all  grum- 
bled at  our  plebeian  name,  hoping  earnestly  to  change  it 
for  something  more  aristocratic,  and  oh,  how  proud  we 
were  of  Charteris !  How  fine  to  put  into  the  village  post 
letters  addressed  "  Francis  Charteris,  Esq.,"  and  to  speak 
of  our  brother-m-law  elect  as  having  "  an  office  under  gov- 
ernment !"  We  firmly  believed  that  office  under  govern- 
ment would  end  m  the  premiership  and  a  peerage. 

It  has  not,  though.  Francis  still  says  he  can  not  afford 
to  marry.  I  was  asking  Penelope  yesterday  if  she  knew 
what  papa  and  his  first  wife,  not  our  own  mamma,  married 
upon  ?  Much  less  income,  I  believe,  than  what  Francis  has 
now.  But  my  sister  said  I  did  not  understand :  "  The  cases 
were  widely  different."     Probably. 

She  is  very  fond  of  Francis.  Last  week,  preparing  for 
him,  she  looked  quite  a  different  woman ;  quite  young  and 
rosy  again ;  and  though  it  did  not  last,  though  after  he  was 
really  come,  she  grew  sharp  and  cross  often,  to  us,  never  to 
him,  of  course,  she  much  enjoys  his  being  here.  They  do 
not  make  so  much  fuss  over  one  another  as  thfey  did  ten 
years  ago,  which  indeed  would  be  ridiculous  in  lovers  over 
thirty.  Still,  I  should  hardly  like  my  lover,  at  any  age,  to 
sit  reading  a  novel  half  the  evening,  and  spend  the  other 
half  in  the  sweet  company  of  his  cigar.  Not  that  he  need 
be  always  hankering  after  me,  and  "  paying  me  attention." 
I  should  hate  that.  For  what  is  the  good  of  people  being 
fond  of  one  another,  if  they  can't  be  content  simply  in  one 
another's  company,  or,  without  it  even,  in  one  another's 
love?  letting  each  go  on  their  own  several  ways  and  do 
their  several  work  "in  the  best  manner  they  can.  Good 
sooth !  I  should  be  the  most  convenient  and  least  trouble- 
some sweetheart  that  ever  a  young  man  was  blessed  w^ith ; 
for  I  am  sure  I  should  sit  all  evening  quite  happy — he  at 
one  end  of  the  room,  and  I  at  the  other,  if  only  I  knew  he 
was  happy,  and  caught  now  and  then  a  look  and  a  smile 
— provided  the  look  and  the  smile  were  my  own  personal 
property,  nobody  else's. 

What  nonsense  am  I  writing  ?  And  not  a  Avord  about  the 
dinner-party.    Has  it  left  so  little  impression  on  my  mind  ? 


36  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

No  wonder !  ^  It  was  just  the  usual  thing.  Papa  as  host, 
grave,  clerical,  and  slightly  wearying  of  it  all.  Penelope 
hostess.  Francis  playing  "  friend  of  the  family,"  as  hand- 
some and  well-dressed  as  ever — v/hat  an  exquisitely  em- 
broidered shirt-front,  and  what  an  aerial  cambric  kerchief! 
which  must  have  taken  him  half  an  hour  to  tie !  Lisabel 
— ^but  I  have  told  about  her ;  and  myself.  Every  body  else 
looking  as  every  body  hereabouts  always  does  at  dinner- 
parties— ex  %mo  disce  omnes — ^to  muster  a  bit  of  the  Latin 
for  which,  in  old  times,  Francis  used  to  call  me  "  a  juvenile 
prig." 

Was  there,  in  the  whole  evening,  any  thing  worth  re- 
membering? Yes,  thanks  to  his  fit  of  jealousy,  I  did  get  a 
little  sensible  conversation  out  of  Captain  Treherne.  He 
looked  so  dull,  so  annoyed,  that  I  felt  sorry  for  the  youth, 
and  tried  to  make  him  talk ;  so,  Hghting  on  the  first  subject 
at  hand,  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  his  friend,  Doctor  Urqu- 
hart,  lately? 

"  Eh,  who  ?     I  beg  your  pardon." 

His  eyes  had  wandered  where  Lisabel,  with  one  of  her 
white  elbows  on  the  table,  sat  coquetting  with  a  bunch  of 
grapes,  listening  with  downcast  eyes  to  "  my  Colin." 

"  Doctor  Urquhart,  whom  I  met  at  the  Cedars  last  week. 
You  said  he  was  a  friend  of  yours." 

"So  he  is — ^the  best  I  ever  had,"  and  it  was  refreshing 
to  see  how  the  young  fellow  brightened  up.  "  He  saved 
my  life.  But  for  him  I  should  assuredly  be  lying  with  a 
cross  over  my  head,  inside  that  melancholy  stone  wall  round 
the  top  of  Cathcart's  Hill." 

"  You  mean  the  cemetery  there.  "What  sort  of  a  place 
is  it?" 

"  Just  as  I  described — the  bare  top  of  a  hill,  with  a  wall 
round  it,  and  stones  of  various  sorts,  crosses,  monuments, 
and  so  on.     All  our  officers  were  buried  there." 

"  And  the  men  ?" 

"  Oh,  any  where.     It  didn't  matter." 

It  did  not,  I  thought ;  but  not  exactly  from  Captain  Tre- 
herne's  point  of  view.  However,  he  was  scarcely  the  man 
with  whom  to  have  started  an  abstract  argument.  I  might, 
had  he  been  Doctor  Urquhart. 

"  Was  Doctor  Urquhart  in  the  Crimea  the  whole  time  ?" 

"To  be  sure.  He  went  through  all  the  campaign,  from 
Yarna  to  Sebastopol ;  at  first  unattached;  and  then  was  ap- 
pointed to  our  regiment.   Well  for  me  that !    What  a  three 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  3*7 

months  I  had  after  Inkernian  !  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  day 
I  first  crawled  out  and  sat  on  the  benches  m  front  of  the 
hospital  on  Balaclava  Heights,  looking  down  on  the  Black 
Sea?" 

I  had  never  seen  him  serious  before.  My  heart  inclined 
even  to  Captain  Treherne. 

"  Was  he  ever  hurt — Doctor  IJrquhart,  I  mean  ?'^ 

"  Once  or  twice,  slightly,  while  looking  after  his  woimd- 
ed  on  the  field.  But  he  made  no  fuss  about  it,  and  always 
got  well  directly.  You  see,  he  is  such  an  extremely  tem- 
perate man  ia  all. things — such  a  quiet  temper — ^has  himself 
in  such  thorough  control,  that  he  has  twice  the  chance  of 
keeping  m  health  that  most  men  have,  especially  our  fel- 
lows there,  who,  he  declares,  died  quite  as  much  of  eating, 
drinking,  and  smoking  as  they  did  of  Russian  bullets." 

"  Your  friend  must  be  a  remarkable  man." 

"  He's  a — a  brick !  Excuse  the  word ;  in  ladies'  society 
I  ought  not  to  use  it." 

"  If  you  ought  to  use  it  at  all,  you  may  do  so  in  ladies" 
society." 

The  youth  looked  puzzled. 

"Well,  then.  Miss  Dora,  he  really  is  a  downright  hfick^ 
since  you  know  what  that  means — though  an  odd  sort  of 
fellow  too ;  a  tough  customer  to  deal  with  ;  never  lets  go 
the  rein ;  holds  one  in  as  tight  as  if  he  were  one's  father. 
I  say,  Charteris,  did  you  ever  hear  the  governor  speak  of 
Doctor  Urquhart,  ot  ours  ?" 

If  Sir  William  had  named  such  a  person,  Mr.  Charteris 
had,  unfortunately,  quite  forgotten  it.  Stay — he  fancied 
he  had  heard  the  name  at  his  club,  but  it  was  really  impos- 
sible to  remember  all  the  names  one  knew,  or  the  men. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  forgotten  that  man  in  a  hurry.  Miss 
Dora,  I  assure  you.  He's  worth  a  dozen  of — ^but  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

If  it  was  for  the  look  which  he  cast  upon  his  cousin,  I 
was  not  implacable.  Francis  always  annoys  me  when  he 
assumes  that  languid  manner.  For  some  thmgs,  I  prefer 
Captain  Treherne's  open  silHness — nothing  being  in  his 
head,  nothing  can  come  out  of  it — to  the  lazy  supercilious- 
ness of  Francis  Charteris,  who,  we  know,  has  a  great  deal 
more  in  him  than  he  ever  condescends  to  let  out,  at  least 
for  our  benefit.  I  should  hke  to  see  if  he  behaves  any  bet- 
ter at  his  aforesaid  club,  or  at  Lady  This's  and  the  Coimtess 
of  That's,  of  whom  I  heard  him  speak  to  Miss  Emery. 


38  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

I  was  thinking  thus,  vaguely  contrasting  his  smooth, 
handsome  face  with  that  sharp  one  of  Penelope's — how 
much  faster  she  grows  old  than  he  does,  though  they  are 
exactly  of  an  age  ! — when  the  ladies  rose. 

Captain  Treherne  and  Colin  rushed  to  open  the  door — 
Francis  did  not  take  that  trouble — and  Lisabel,  passing, 
smiled  equally  on  both  her  adorers.  Colin  made  some  stu- 
pid compliments ;  and  the  other,  silent,  looked  her  full  in 
the  face.  If  any  man  so  dared  to  look  at  me,  I  would  hke 
to  grind  him  to  powder. 

Oh,  I'm  sick  of  love  and  lovers — or  the  mockery  of  them 
— sick  to  the  core  of  my  heart ! 

In  the  drawing-room  I  curled  myself  up  in  a  corner  be- 
side Mrs.  Granton,  whom  it  is  always  pleasant  to  talk  to. 
We  revived  the  great  blanket,  beef,  and  anti-beer  question, 
in  which  she  said  she  had  found  an  unexpected  ally. 

"  One  who  argues,  even  more  strongly  than  your  father 
and  I,  my  dear — as  I  was  telling  Mr.  Johnston  to-day  at 
dinner,  and  wishing  they  were  acquainted — argues  against 
the  beer." 

This  was  a  question  whether  or  not  our  poor  people 
should  have  beer  with  their  Christmas  dinner.  Papa,  who 
holds  strong  opinions  against  the  use  of  intoxicating  drinks, 
and  never  tastes  them  himself,  being  every  year  rather  in  ill 
odor  on  the  subject,  I  asked  who  was  this  valuable  ally. 

"  None  of  our  neighbors,  you  may  be  sure.  A  gentleman 
from  the  camp — ^you  may  have  met  him  at  my  house — a 
Doctor  Urquhart." 

I  could  not  help  smiling,  and  said  it  was  curious  how  I 
was  perpetually  hearing  of  Doctor  Urquhart. 

"  Even  in  our  quiet  neighborhood  such  a  man  is  sure  to 
be  talked  about.  ]^ot  in  society,  perhaps — ^it  was  quite  a 
marvel  for  Colm  to  get  him  to  our  ball— but  because  he 
does  so  many  things  while  we  humdrum  folk  are  only 
thinking  about  them." 

I  asked,  what  sort  of  things  ?     In  his  profession  ? 

"  Chiefly,  but  he  makes  professional  business  include  so 
much.  Imagine  his  coining  to  Colin  as  ground-landlord  of 
Bourne  hamlet,  to  beg  him  to  see  to  the  clearing  of  the  vil- 
lage pool,  or  writing  to  the  lord  of  the  manor,  saying  that 
twenty  new  cottages  built  on  the  moor  would  do  more 
moral  good  than  the  new  county  reformatory.  He  is  one 
of  the  few  men  who  are  not  ashamed  to  say  what  they 
think,  and  makes  people  listen  to  it,  too,  as  they  rarely  do 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  39 

to  those  not  long  settled  in  the  neighborhood,  and  about 
whom  they  know  little  or  nothing." 

I  asked  if  nothing  were  known  about  Doctor  Urquhart  ? 
Had  he  any  relations  ?     Was  he  married  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  surely  not  married.  I  never  inquired,  but  took 
it  for  granted.  However,  probably  my  son  knows.  Shall 
I  find  out,  and  speak  a  good  word  for  you,  Miss  Dora  ?" 

"  N'o,  thank  you,"  said  I,  laughing.  "  You  know  I  hate 
soldiers." 

'Tis  Mrs.  Granton's  only  fault — ^her  annoying  jests  after 
this  fashion.  Otherwise,  I  would  have  liked  to  have  asked 
a  few  more  questions  about  Doctor  Urquhart.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  ever  meet  him  again  ?  The  regiments  rarely  stay 
long  at  the  camp,  so  that  it  is  not  probable. 

I  went  over  to  where  my  sisters  and  Miss  Emery  were 
sitting  over  the  fire.  Miss  Emery  was  talking  very  fast, 
and  Penelope  listening  with  a  slightly  scornful  lip — she  pro- 
tests that  ladies,  middle-aged  ladies  particularly,  are  such 
very  stupid  company.  Lisabel  wore  her  good-natured 
smile,  always  the  same  to  every  body. 

"  I  was  quite  pleased,"  Miss  Emery  was  saying,  "  to  no- 
tice how  cordially  Captain  Treherne  and  Mr.  Charteris  met : 
I  always  understood  there  was  a  sort  of  a — a  coolness,  in 
short.  Very  natural.  As  his  nephew,  and  next  heir,  after 
the  captain.  Sir  William  might  have  done  more  than  he  did 
for  Mr.  Charteris.  So  people  said,  at  least.  He  has  a  splen- 
did property,  and  only  that  one  son.  You  have  been  to 
Treherne  Court,  Miss  Johnston  ?" 

Penelope  abruptly  answered,  "  'No ;"  and  Lisabel  added 
amiably,  that  we  seldom  went  from  home — papa  liked  to 
have  us  at  Rockmount  all  the  year  round. 

I  said  willfully,  wickedly,  may  be,  lest  Miss  Emery's  long 
tongue  should  carry  back  to  London  what  was  by  implica- 
tion not  true — that  we  did  not  even  know  where  Treherne 
Court  was,  and  that  we  had  only  met  Captain  Treherne  ac- 
cidentally among  the  camp-officers  who  visited  at  the  Ce- 
dars. 

Lis  pinched  me;  Penelope  looked  annoyed.  Was  it  a 
highly  virtuous  act  thus  to  have  vexed  both  my  sisters  ? 
Alack,  I  feel  myself  growing  more  unamiable  every  day. 
What  will  be  the  end  of  it  ? 

"  Firpt  come,  first  served,"  must  have  been  Lisabel's  mot- 
to for  the  evening,  since.  Captain  Treherne  reappearing, 
scarlet  beat  plain  black  clear  out  of  the  field.     I  was  again 


•40  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

obliged  to  follow,  as  Charity,  pouring  the  oil  and  wine  of 
my  agreeable  conversation  into  the  wounds  made  by  my 
sister's  bright  eyes,  and  receiving  as  gratitude  such  an 
amount  of  information  on  turnips,  moorlands,  and  the  true 
art  of  sheep-feeding,  a^^will  make  me  look  with  respect  and 
hesitation  on  every  leg  of  mutton  that  comes  to  our  table 
for  the  next  six  months. 

"  Oil,  Colin,  dear  Colin,  my  Colin,  my  dear, 
Who  wont  the  wild  mountains  to  trace  without  fear, 
Oh,  where  are  thy  flocks  that  so  swiftly  rebound. 
And  fly  o'er  the  heath  Avithout  touching  the  ground  ?" 

A  remarkable  fact  in  natural  history,  which  much  im- 
j^ressed  me  in  my  childhood.     What  is  the  rest  ? 

"Where  the  birch-tree  hangs  weeping  o'er  foimtain  so  clear, 
At  noon  I  shall  meet  him,  my  Colin,  my  dear." 

What  a  shame  to  laugh  at  Mrs.  Grant  of  Laggan's  nice 
old  song — at  the  pretty  Highland  tune  which  ere  now  I 
have  hummed  over  the  moor  for  miles !  Since,  when  we 
were  children,  I  myself  was  in  love  with  Colin !  a  love 
which  found  vent  in  much  petting  of  his  mother,  and  m  shy 
presents  to  himself  of  nuts  and  blackberries;  until,  stung 
by  indifference,  my  affection  ■ 

"Shrunk 
Into  itself,  and  was  missing  ever  after." 

Do  we  forget  our  childish  loves  ?  I  thmk  not.  The  ob- 
jects change,  of  course,  but  the  feeling,  when  it  has  been 
true  and  unselfish  keeps  its  character  still,  and  is  always 
pleasant  to  remember.  It  was  very  silly,  no  doubt,  but  I 
question  if  now  I  could  love  any  body  in  a  fonder,  humbler, 
faithfuler  way  than  I  adored  that  great,  merry,  good-natured 
schoolboy.  And  though  I  know  he  has  not  an  ounce  of 
brains,  is  the  exact  opposite  of  any  body  I  could  fall  in  love 
with  now — still,  to  this  day,  I  look  kindly  on  the  round, 
rosy  face  of  "  Colin,  my  dear." 

I  wonder  if  he  ever  will  marry  our  Lisa.  As  far  as  I  no- 
tice, people  do  not  often  marry  their  childish  companions ; 
they  much  prefer  strangers.  Possibly  from  mere  novelty 
and  variety,  or  else  from  the  fact  that  as  kin  are  sometimes 
"  less  than  kind,"  so  one's  familiar  associates  are  often  the 
ferthest  from  one's  sympathies,  interests,  or  heart. 

With  this  highly  moral  and  amiable  sentiment — a  fit  con- 
clusion for  a  social  evenmg,  I  will  lock  my  desk. 

^  *  *  * "  *  ^  ^ 

Lucky  I  did !     What  if  Lisabel  liad  found  mo  writing  at 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  41 

— one  in  tlie  morning !  How  she  would  have  teased  me — 
even  under  the  circumstances  of  last  night,  which  seem  to 
have  affected  her  mighty  little,  considering. 

I  heard  her  at  my  door,  from  without,  grumble  at  it  be- 
ing bolted.  She  came  in  and  sat  down  by  my  fire.  Quite 
a  picture,  in  a  blue  flannel  dressing-gown,  with  her  light 
hair  dropping  down  in  two  wavy  streams,  and  her  eyes  as 
bright  as  if  it  were  any  hour  rather  than  1.30  a.m.,  as  I 
showed  her  by  my  watch. 

"  Nonsense !  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  yet.  I  want  to  talk  a 
bit,  Dora ;  you  ought  to  feel  flattered  by  my  commg  to  tell 
you  first  of  any  body.     Guess  now — what  has  happened  ?" 

IsTothing  ill,  certainly — for  she  held  her  head  up,  laughing 
a  little,  lookmg  very  handsome  and  pleased. 

"  You  will  never  guess,  for  you  never  believed  it  would 
come  to  pass,  but  it  has.  Treherne  proposed  to  me  to- 
night." 

The  news  quite  took  my  breath  away,  and  then  I  ques- 
tioned its  accuracy.  "  He  has  only  been  giving  j^ou  a  few 
more  of  his  siUy  speeches  ;  he  means  nothuig.  Why  don't 
you  put  a  stop  to  it  all  ?" 

Lisabel  vvas  not  vexed — she  never  is — she  only  laughed. 

"  I  tell  you,  Dora,  it  is  perfectly  true.  You  may  beheve 
or  not,  I  don't  care ;  but  he  really  did  it." 

"  How,  when,  and  where,  pray  ?" 

"  In  the  conservatory,  beside  the  biggest  orange-tree,  a 
few  minutes  before  he  left." 

I  said,  since  she  was  so  very  matter-of-fact,  perhaps  she 
would  have  no  objection  to  tell  me  the  precise  words  in 
which  he  "did  it." 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  not  the  smallest  objection.  We  were  jok- 
ing about  a  bit  of  orange-blossom  Colin  had  given  me,  and 
Treherne  wanted  me  to  throw  away ;  but  I  said  '  ISTo,  I 
liked  the  scent,  and  meant  to  wear  a  wreath  of  natural  or- 
ange-floAvers  when  I  was  married.'  Upon  which  he  grew 
quite  furious,  and  said  it  would  drive  him  mad  if  I  ever 
married  any  man  but  him.  Then  he  got  hold  of  my  hand, 
and — the  usual  thing,  you  know."  She  blushed  a  little. 
"  It  ended  by  my  telling  him  he  had  better  speak  to  papa, 
and  he  said  he  should  to-morrow.  .  That's  all." 

"All!" 

"  Well  ?"  said  Lisabel,  expectantly. 

It  certainly  was  a  singular  way  in  which  to  receive  one's 
sister's  announcement  of  her  intended  marriage ;  but,  for 


42  A   LIFE   FOK   A  LIFE. 

worlds,  I  could  not  have  spoken  a  syllable.  I  felt  a  weight 
on  my  chest ;  a  sense  of  hot  indignation  which  settled  down 
mto  inconceivable  melancholy. 

Was  this,  indeed,  all  ?  A  silly  flirtation ;  a  young  lad's 
passion ;  a  young  girl's  cool  busmess-like  reception  of  the 
same ;  the  formal  "  speaking  to  papa,"  and  the  thmg  was 
over !     Was  that  love  ? 

"  Haven't  you  a  word  to  say,  Dora  ?  I  had  better  have 
told  Penelope ;  but  she  was  tired,  and  scolded  me  out  of 
her  room.  Besides,  she  might  not  exactly  like  this,  for 
some  reasons.  It's  rather  hard ;  such  an  important  thing  to 
happen,  and  not  a  soul  to  congratulate  one  upon  it." 

I  asked  why  might  Penelope  dishke  it  ? 

"  Can't  you  see  ?  Captain  Treherne  roving  about  the 
world,  and  Captain  Treherne  married  and  settled  at  home, 
might  make  a  considerable  difference  to  Francis's  prospects. 
No,  I  don't  mean  any  thing  mean  or  murderous — you  need 
not  look  so  shocked — it  is  merely  my  practical  way  of  re- 
garding things.  But  what  harm  ?  If  I  did  not  have  Tre- 
herne, some  one  else  would,  and  it  would  be  none  the  bet- 
ter for  Francis  and  Penelope." 

"You  are  very  prudent  and  far-sighted;  such  an  idea 
would  never  have  entered  my  mind." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  Just  give  me  that  brush,  wiU  you, 
child?" 

She  proceeded  methodically  to  damp  her  long  hair,  and 
plait  it  up  in  those  countless  tails  which  gave  Miss  Lisabel 
Johnston's  locks  such  a  beautiful  wave.  Passing  the  glass, 
she  looked  into  it,  smiled,  sighed. 

"  Poor  fellow.     I  do  believe  he  is  very  fond  of  me." 

"And  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  hke  him — like  him  excessively.  If  I  didn't,  what 
should  I  marry  him  for  ?" 

"What,  indeed?" 

"  There  is  one  objection  papa  may  have ;  his  being  youn- 
ger than  I,  I  forget  how  much,  but  it  is  very  little.  How 
surprised  papa  will  be  when  he  gets  the  letter  to-morrow." 

"  Does  Sir  WiUiam  know  ?" 

"  Not  yet ;  but  that  will  be  soon  settled,  he  tells  me. 
He  can  persuade  his  mother,  and  she  his  father.  Besides, 
they  can  have  no  possible  objection  to  me." 

She  looked  again  in  the  mirror  as  she  said  this.  Yes, 
that  "  me"  was  not  a  daughter-m-law  likely  to  be  objected 
to,  even  at  the  Treherne  court. 


A   LII^E   FOE   A   LIFE.  43 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  vex  Penelope,"  she  continued.  "  It 
may  be  all  the  better  for  her,  since,  when  I  am  married,  I 
shall  have  so  much  influence.  We  may  make  the  old  gen- 
tleman do  something  handsome  for  Francis,  and  get  a  richer 
living  for  papa,  if  he  will  consent  to  leave  Rockmount. 
And  I'd  find  a  nice  husband  for  you,  eh,  Dora  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  don't  want  one.  I  hate  the  very  men- 
tion of  the  thing.  I  wish,  instead  of  marrying,  we  could 
all  be  dead  and  buried." 

And,  whether  from  weariness,  or  excitement,  or  a  sud- 
den, unutterable  pang  at  seeing  my  sister,  my  playfellow, 
my  handsome  Lisa,  sitting  there,  talking  as  she  talked,  and 
acting  as  she  acted,  I  could  bear  up  no  longer.  I  burst  out 
sobbing. 

She  was  very  much  astonished,  and  somewhat  touched, 
I  suppose,  for  she  cried  too  a  little,  and  we  kissed  one  an- 
other several  times,  which  we  are  not  much  in  the  habit  of 
doing.  Till,  suddenly,  I  recollected  Treherne,  the  orange- 
tree,  and  "  the  usual  thing."     Her  hps  seemed  to  burn  me. 

"  Oh,  Lisa,  I  wish  you  wouldn't.   I  do  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"  Wouldn't  what  ?  Don't  you  want  me  to  be  engaged 
and  married,  child  ?" 

"  E'ot  in  that  way." 

"  In  what  way,  then  ?" 

I  could  not  tell.     I  did  not  know. 

"  After  the  fashion  of  Francis  and  Penelope,  perhaps  ? 
Falling  in  love  like  a  couple  of  babies,  before  they  knew 
their  own  minds,  and  then  being  tied  together,  and  keep- 
ing the  thing  on  in  a  stupid,  meaningless,  tiresome  way,  till 
she  is  growuag  into  an  elderly  woman,  and  he —  ISTo,  thank 
you,  I  have  seen  quite  enough  of  early  loves  and  long  en- 
gagements. I  always  meant  to  have  somebody  whom  I 
could  marry  at  once,  and  be  done  with  it." 

There  was  a  half-truth  in  what  she  said,  though  I  could 
not  then  find  the  other  half  to  fit  into  it,  and  prove  that 
her  satisfactory  circle  of  reasoning  was  partly  formed  of 
absolute,  untenable  falsehood,  for  false  I  am  sure  it  was. 
Though  I  can  not  argue  it,  can  hardly  understand  it,  Ifeel 
it.  There  must  be  a  truth  somewhere.  Love  can  not  be 
all  a  lie. 

My  sister  and  I  talked  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  then 
she  rose,  and  said  she  must  go  to  bed. 

"  Will  you  not  wish  me  happiness  ?  'Tis  very  unkind 
of  you." 


44  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

I  told  her  outright  that  I  did  not  think  as  she  thought 
cm  these  matters,  but  that  she  had  made  her  choice,  and  I 
hoped  it  Avonld  be  a  happy  one. 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Now  go  to  bed,  and  don't  cry  any 
more,  there's  a  good  girl,  for  there  really  is  nothing  to  cry 
about.  You  shall  have  the  very  prettiest  bridesmaid's 
dress  I  can  afford,  and  Treherne  Court  will  be  such  a  nice 
house  for  you  to  visit  at.     Good-night,  Dora." 

Strange,  altogether  strange ! 

And  writmg  it  all  down  this  morning  I  feel  it  stranger 
than  ever  still. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HIS    STOUT. 

I  WILL  set  down,  if  only  to  get  rid  of  them  a  few  inci- 
dents of  this  day. 

Trivial  they  are,  ludicrously  so,  to  any  one  but  me ;  yet 
they  have  left  me  sitting  with  my  head  in  my  hands,  stupid 
and  idle,  starting,  each  hour,  at  the  boom  of  the  bell  we 
took  at  Sebastopol — starting  and  shivering  like  a  nervous 
child. 

Strange !  there,  in  the  Crimea,  in  the  midst  of  danger, 
hardship,  and  misery  of  all  kinds,  I  was  at  peace,  even  hap- 
py ;  happier  than  for  many  years.  I  seemed  to  have  lived 
down,  and  nearly  obliterated  from  thought,  that  one  day, 
one  honr,  one  moment,  which  was  but  a  moment.  Can  it, 
ought  it,  to  weigh  against  a  whole  existence  ?  or,  as  some 
religionists  would  tell  us,  against  an  eternity  ?  Yet  v/hat 
is  time,  what  is  eternity  ?  Nay,  rather,  what  is  man,  meas- 
uring himself,  his  atom  of  good  or  iU,  either  done  or  suf- 
fered, against  God  ? 

These  are  vain  speculations,  which  I  have  gone  over  and 
over  again,  till  every  link  in  the  chain  of  reasoning  is  pain- 
fully familiar.  I  had  better  give  it  up,  and  turn  to  ordinary 
things.  Dear  imaginary  correspondent,  shall  I  tell  you  the 
story  of  my  day  ?  * 

It  began  peacefully.  I  always  rest  on  a  Sunday,  if  I  can. 
I  believe,  even  had  Heaven  not  hallowed  one  day  in  the 
seven — Saturday  or  Sunday  matters  not,  let  Jews  and 
Christians  battle  it  out — there  would  still  be  needful  a  day 
of  rest ;  and  that  day  would  still  be  a  blessed  day.  In- 
stinct, old  habit,  and  later  conviction  alwavs  incline  me  to 


A   LIFE    FOK   A  LIFE,  45 

"  keep  tlie  sabbath ;"  not,  iBcleed,  after  the  strict  fashion 
of  my  forefathers,  but  as  a  happy,  cheerful,  holy  time,  a 
'  resting-place  betAveen  week  and  week,  in  which  to  enjoy 
specially  all  righteous  pleasures  and  earthly  repose,  and  to 
look  forward  to  that  rest  which,  we  are  told,  "  remaineth 
for  the  people  of  God."  The  people  of  God ;  no  other  peo- 
ple ever  do  rest,  even  in  this  world. 

Treherne  passed  my  hut  soon  after  breakfast,  and  popped 
his  head  in,  not  over  welcomely,  I  confess,  for  I  was  giAdng 
myself  the  rare  treat  of  a  bit  of  unprofessional  reading.  I 
had  not  seen  him  for  two  or  three  days,  not  since  we  ap- 
pointed to  go  together  to  the  general's  dinner,  and  he  nev- 
er appeared  till  the  evening. 

"  I  say.  Doctor,  will  you  go  to  church  ?" 

I^ow  I  do  usually  attend  our  airy  military  chapel,  all 
doors  and  windows,  open  to  every  kind  of  air,  except  airs 
from  heaven,  of  which,  I  ^m  afraid,  om*  chaplain  does  not 
bring  with  him  a  large  quantity.  He  leaves  us  to  fatten 
upon  Hebrew  roots,  without  throwing  us  a  crumb  of  Chris- 
tianity;  prefers  Moses  and  the  prophets  to  the  IsTew  Testa- 
ment ;  no  wonder,  as  some  few  doctrines  there,  "  Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  they  should  do  unto  you,"  "  He  that 
taketh  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword,"  etc.,  would 
sound  particularly  odd  in  a  military  chapel,  especially  with 
his  elucidation  of  them,  for  he  is  the  very  poorest  preacher 
I  ever  heard.  Yet  a  worthy  man,  a  most  sincere  man ;  did 
a  world  of  good  out  in  the  Crimea ;  used  to  spend  hours 
daily  in  teaching  our  men  to  read  and  write,  got  personal- 
ly acquainted  with  every  fellow  iji  the  regiment,  knew  all 
their  private  histories,  wrote  their  letters  home,  sought 
them  out  in  the  battle-field  and  in  the  hospital,  read  to 
them,  cheered  them,  comforted  them,  and  closed  their  eyes. 
There  was  not  an  officer  in  the  regiment  more  deservedly 
beloved  than  our  chaplain.  He  is  an  admirable  fellow — 
every  where  but  in  the  pulpit. 

Nevertheless,  I  attend  his  chapel,  as  I  have  always  been 
in  the  habit  of  attendhig  some  Christian  worship  some- 
where, because  it  is  the  simplest  way  of  showing  that  I  am 
not  ashamed  of  my  Master  before  men. 

Therefore  I  would  not  smile  at  Treherne's  astonishing 
fit  of  piety,  but  simply  assented,  at  which  he  evidently  was 
disappointed. 

"  You  see,  I'm  turning  respectable,  and  gomg  to  church. 
I  wonder  such  an  exceedingly  respectable  and  religious 


46  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

fellow  as  you,  Urquhart,  has  not  tried  to  make  me  go 
sooner." 

"  If  yon  go  against  yom-  will  and  because  it's  respectable, 
you  had  better  stop  away." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  suppose  I  have  my  own  reasons  for 
gomg  ?" 

He  is  not  a  deep  fellow ;  there  is  no  deceit  in  the  lad. 
All  his  faults  are  uppermost,  which  makes  them  bearable. 

"  Come,  out  with  it.  Better  make  a  clean  breast  to  me. 
It  will  not  be  the  first  time." 

"Well,  then — ahem!"  twisting  his  sash  and  looking 
down  with  most  extraordmary  modesty,  "  the  fact  is,  she 
wished  it." 

"Who?" 

"The -lady  you  know  of  In  truth,  I  may  as  weU  tell 
you,  for  I  want  you  to  speak  up  for  me  to  her  father,  and 
also  to  break  it  to  my  governor.  I've  taken  your  advice, 
and  been,  and  gone,  and  done  for  myself." 

"  Married !"  for  his  manner  was  so  queer  that  I  should 
not  have  wondered  at  even  that  catastrophe. 

"  Not  quite,  but  next  door  to  it.  Popped,  and  been  ac- 
cepted. Yes,  since  Friday  I've  been  an  engaged  man.  Doc- 
tor." 

Behind  his  foolishness  was  some  natural  feelmg,  mixed 
Avith  a  rather  comical  awe  of  his  own  position. 

For  me,  I  was  a  good  deal  surprised ;  yet  he  might  have 
come  to  a  worse  end.  To  a  rich  young  fellow  of  twenty- 
one,  the  world  is  full  of  many  more  dangerous  pitfalls  than 
matrimony.  So  I  expressed  myself  in  the  customary  con- 
gratulations, adding  that  I  concluded  the  lady  was  the  one 
I  had  seen. 

Treherne  nodded. 

"  Sir  Wilham  knows  it  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  wanted  you  to  break  it 
to  hhn?  Though  he  will  consent,  of  course.  Her  father 
is  quite  respectable — a  clergyman,  you  are  aware ;  and  she 
is  such  a  handsome  girl — would  do  credit  to  any  man's 
taste.     Also,  she  likes  me — a  trifle !" 

And  he  pulled  his  mustache  with  a  satisfied  recognition 
of  his  great  feUcity. 

I  saw  no  reason  to  question  it,  such  as  it  was.  He  was 
a  well-looking  fellow,  likely  to  please  women  ;  and  this  one, 
though  there  was  not  much  in  her,  appeared  kindly  and 
agreeable.     The   other   sister,  whom  I  talked  with,  was 


A   LIFE   FOE  A   LIFE.  47 

something  more.  They  were,  no  doubt,  a  perfectly  -unob- 
jectionable family  ;  nor  did  I  think  that  Sk  William,  who 
was  anxious  for  his  son  to  marry  early,  would  refuse  con- 
sent to  any  creditable  choice.  But,  decidedly,  he  ought  to 
be  told  at  once — ought  indeed  to  have  been  consulted  be- 
forehand.    I  said  so. 

"Can't  help  that.  It  happened  imexpectedly.  I  had, 
when  I  entered  Rockmount,  no  more  idea  of  such  a  thing 
than — than  your  cat,  Doctor.  Uj)on  my  soul  'tis  the  fact ! 
Well,  well,  marriage  is  a  man's  fate.  He  can  no  more  help 
himself  in  the  matter  than  a  stone  can  help  rolling  down  a 
hill.  All's  over,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  So,  will  you  write, 
and  tell  my  father  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Do  it  yourself,  and  you  had  better  do 
it  now.     '  'No  time  like  the  present,'  always." 

I  pushed  toward  him  pens,  ink,  and  j)aper ;  and  return- 
ed to  my  book  again ;  but  it  was  not  quite  absorbing ;  and 
occasional  glimpses  of  Treherne's  troubled  and  puzzled  face 
amused  me,  as  well  as  made  me  thoughtful. 

It  was  natural  that,  having  been  in  some  slight  way  con- 
cerned in  it,  this  matter,  foreign  as  it  was  to  the  general  tenor 
of  my  busy  life,  should  interest  me  a  little.  Though  I  view- 
ed it,  not  from  the  yoimger,  but  from  the  elder  side.  I 
myself  never  knew  either  father  or  mother;  they  died 
when  I  was  a  child ;  but  I  think,  whether  or  not  we  pos- 
sess it  in  youth,  we  rarely  come  to  my  time  of  hfe  without 
having  a  strong  instinctive  feeling  of  the  rights  of  parents, 
being  worthy  parents.  Kights,  of  com'se  modified  in  their 
extent  by  the  higher  claims  of  the  Father  of  all ;  but  sec- 
ond to  none  other,  except,  perhaps,  those  which  He  ha? 
himself  made  superior — the  rights  of  husband  and  wife. 

I  felt,  when  I  came  to  consider  it,  exceedingly  sorry  that 
Treherne  had  made  a  proposal  of  marriage  without  con- 
sulting his  father.  But  it  was  no  concern  of  mine.  Even 
his  "  taking  my  advice,"  was,  he  knew  well,  his  o^m  exag- 
geration of  an  abstract  remark  which  I  could  not  but  make ; 
otherwise,  I  had  not  meddled  in  his  courting,  which,  in  my 
opinion,  no  third  party  has  a  right  to  do. 

So  I  washed  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  except  con- 
senting to  Treherne's  earnest  request  that  I  would  go  with 
him,  this  morning,  to  the  little  village,  church  of  which  the 
young  lady's  father  was  the  clergyman,  and  be  intro- 
duced. 

"  A  tough  old  gentleman  too ;  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  as 


48  A   LIFE   FOE.   A   LIFE. 

liard  as  a  rock — walking  into  liis  study,  yesterday  morn- 
ing, was  no  joke,  I  assure  you." 

"  But  you  said  he  had  consented  V* 

"  Ah !  yes,  all's  right.  That  is,  it  will  be  when  I  hear 
from  the  governor." 

All  this  while,  by  a  curious  amatory  eccentricity,  he  had 
never  mentioned  the  lady's  name,  l^or  had  I  asked,  be- 
cause I  knew  it.  Also,  because  that  surname,  common  as 
it  is,  is  still  extremely  painful  to  me,  either  to  utter  or  to 
hear. 

We  came  late  into  church,  and  sat  by  the  door.  It  was 
a  pleasant  September  forenoon ;  there  was  sunshine  Avith- 
in,  and  sunshine  outside,  far  away  across  the  moors.  I  had 
never  been  to  this  village  before ;  it  seemed  a  pretty  one, 
and  the  church  old  and  picturesque.  The  congregation 
consisted  almost  entirely  of  poor  people,  except  one  family, 
which  I  concluded  to  be  the  clergyman's.  He  was  in  the 
reading-desk. 

"  That's  her  father,"  whispered  Treherne. 

"  Oh,  indeed."  But  I  did  not  look  at  him  for  a  minute 
or  so ;  I  could  not.  Such  moments  will  come,  despite  of 
reasoning,  belief,  conviction,  when  1  see  a  person  bearing 
any  name  resembling  that  name.  ^ 

At  last  I  lifted  up  my  head  to  observe  him. 

A  calm,  hard,  regular  face ;  well-shaped  features ;  high, 
narrow  forehead,  aquiline  nose — a  totally  different  type 
from  one  which  I  so  well  remember  that  any  accidental 
likeness  thereto  impresses  me  as  startlingly  and  vividly  as, 
I  have  heard,  men  of  tenacious,  fervent  memory  will  have 
impressed  on  them,  through  life,  as  their  favorite  type  of 
beauty,  the  countenance  of  their  first  love. 

I  could  sit  down  now,  at  ease,  and  listen  to  this  gentle- 
man's reading  of  the  prayers.  His  reading  was  what  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  face — classical,  accurate,  intel-- 
ligent,  gentlemanly.  And  tlie  congregation  listened  with 
respect  as  to  a  clever  exposition  of  things  quite  beyond 
their  comprehension.  Except  the  gabble-gabble  of  the  Sun- 
day-school, and  the  clerk's  loud  "  A-a-men !"  the  minister 
had  the  service  entirely  to  himself 

A  beautiful  service ;  as  I,  though  at  heart  a  Presbyterian, 
still  must  avow ;  especially  when  heard — as  I  have  heard  it 
—at  sea,  in  hospital,  at  the  camp.  Not  this  camp,  but  ours 
in  the  Crimea,  where,  all  through  the  prayers,  guns  kept 
booming,  and  shells  kept  flying,  sometimes  withm  a  short 


A  LIFE  FOE  A  LIFE,  49 

distance  of  the  chapel  itself.  I  mind  of  one  Sunday,  little 
more  than  a  year  ago,  for  it  must  have  been  on  the  ninth 
of  September,  when  I  stopped  on  my  way  from  Balaclava 
hospital,  to  hear  service  read  in  the  open  air,  on  a  hill-side. 
It  was  a  cloudy  day,  I  remember ;  below,  brown  with  long 
drought,  stretched  the  Balaclava  plains ;  opposite,  gray  and 
still,  rose  the  high  momitains  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tcher- 
naya ;  while  far  away  to  the  right,  toward  our  camp,  one 
could  just  trace  the  white  tents  of  the  Highland  regiments ; 
and  to  the  left,  hidden  by  the  Col  de  Balaclava,  a  duU,  per- 
petual rumble,  and  clouds  of  smoke  hanging  in  the  air, 
showed  where,  six  miles  off,  was  being  enacted  the  fall  of 
Sebastopol — though  at  the  tune  we  did  not  know  it ;  this 
little  congregation,  mustered  just  outside  a  hospital  tent, 
where,  I  remember,  not  a  stone's  throw  from  where  we, 
the  hving,  knelt,  lay  a  row  of  those  straight,  still,  formless 
forms,  the  more  a^^ul  because  from  familiarity  they  had 
ceased  to  be  felt  as  such — each  sewn  u]3  in  the  blanket,  its 
only  cofSn,  waiting  for  burial — waiting  also,  we  beheve  and 
hope,  for  the  resurrection  from  the  dead. 

What  a  sermon  our  chaplain  might  have  preached !  what 
words  I,  or  any  man,  could  surely  have  found  to  say  at  such 
a  time,  on  such  a  spot !  Yet  what  we  did  hear  were  the 
merest  platitudes — so  utterly  trivial  and  out  of  place,  that 
I  do  not  now  recall  a  single  sentence.  Strange  that  people — 
good  Christian  men,  as  I  knew  that  man  to  be — should  go 
on  droning  out  "  words,  words,  words,"  when  bodies  and 
souls  perish  in  thousands  round  them ;  or  sphttiiig  theolog- 
ical hau'S  to  poor  fellows,  who,  except  in  an  oath,  are  igno- 
rant even  of  the  Divine  ]N"ame ;  or  thundering  anathemas 
at  them  for  going  doT\Ti  to  the  pit  of  perdition  without  even 
so  much  as  pointing  out  to  them  the  bright  but  narrow 
way. 

I  was  sitting  thus,  absorbed  in  the  heavy  thoughts  that 
often  come  to  me  when  thus  quiet  in  church,  hearing  some 
man,  who  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  Church's  teachers, 
delivering  the  message  of  the  Church's  Great  Head,  when, 
looking  up,  I  saw  two  eyes  fixed  on  me. 

It  was  one  of  the  clergyman's  three  daughters ;  the 
youngest,  probably,  for  her  seat  was  in  the  most  uncom- 
fortable corner  of  the  pew,  apparently  the  same  I  had  talk- 
ed with  at  Mrs.  Granton's,  though  I  was  not  sure — ladies 
look  so  different  in  their  bonnets.  Hers  was  close,  I  no- 
ticed, and  decently  covering  the  head,  not  dropping  off  on 


50  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

her  shoulders  like  those  I  see  ladies  wearing,  which  will  as- 
suredly multiply  ophthalmic  cases,  with  all  sorts  of  head 
and  face  complaints,  as  the  winter  winds  come  on.  Such 
exposure  must  be  very  pamful,  too,  these  blinding  sunny 
days.  How  can  women  stand  the  torments  they  have  to 
undergo  in  matters  of  dress  ?  If  I  had  any  womankind  be- 
longmg  to  me — pshaw !  what  an  idle  speculation. 

Those  two  eyes,  steadfastly  inquiring,  with  a  touch  of 
comj^assion  in  them,  startled  me.  Many  a  pair  of  eager 
eyes  have  I  had  to  meet,  but  it  was  always  their  own  fate,  or 
that  of  some  one  dear  to  them,  which  they  were  anxious  to 
learn ;  they  never  sought  to  know  any  thing  of  me  or  mine. 
IsTow  these  did. 

I  am  nervously  sensitive  of  even  kindly  scrutiny.  Invol- 
untarily I  moved  so  that  one  of  the  piUars  came  between 
me  and  those  eyes.  When  we  stood  up  to  sing  she  kept 
them  steadily  upon  her  hymn-book,  nor  did  they  wander 
again  during  church-time,  either  toward  me  or  in  any  other 
direction.  ^ 

The  face  being  just  opposite  in  the  line  of  the  pulpit,  I 
could  not  help  seeing  it  during  the  whole  of  the  discourse, 
which  was,  as  I  expected,  classical,  belabored,  elegant,  and 
interesting,  after  the  pattern  of  the  preacher's  countenance. 

His  daughter  is  not  like  him.  In  repose,  her  features  are 
ordinary;  nor  did  they  for  one  moment  recall  to  me  the 
flashing,  youthful  face,  full  of  action  and  energy,  which  had 
amused  me  that  night  at  the  Cedars.  Some  faces  catch  the 
reflection  of  the  moment  so  vividly  that  you  never  see  them 
twice  alike.  Others,  solidly  and  composedly  handsome, 
scarcely  vary  at  all,  and  I  think  it  is  of  these  last  that  one 
would  soonest  weary.  Irregular  features  have  generally 
most  character.  The  Venus  di  Medici  would  have  made  a 
very  stupid  fireside  companion,  nor  would  I  venture  to  en- 
ter for  Oxford  honors  a  son  who  had  the  profile  of  the 
Apollo  Belvidere. 

Treherne  is  evidently  of  a  difierent  opinion.  He  sat  beam- 
ing out  admiration  upon  that  large,  fair,  statuesque  woman, 
who  had  turned  so  that  her  pure  Greek  profile  was  distinct- 
ly visible  against  the  red  cloth  of  the  high  pew.  She  might 
have  known  what  a  pretty  picture  she  was  making.  She 
will  please  Sir  William,  who  admires  beauty,  and  she  seems 
refined  enough  even  for  Lady  Augusta  Treherne.  I  thought 
to  myself  the  lad  might  have  gone  farther  and  fared  worse. 
His  marriage  v/as  sure  to  have  been  one  of  pure  accident : 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  51 

he  is  not  a  young  man  either  to  have  had  the  decision  to 
choose,  or  the  firmness  to  win  and  keep. 

Service  ended,  he  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  her,  and  I 
said  much  as  I  have  written  here.    He  appeared  satisfied. 

"  You  must  stay  and  be  introduced  to  the  family ;  the 
father  remains  in  church.  I  shall  walk  home  with  them. 
Ah!  she  sees  us." 

The  lad  was  aU  eagerness  and  excitement.  He  must  he 
considerably  in  earnest. 

"  ]Srow,  Doctor,  come — nay,  pray  do." 

For  I  hesitated. 

Hesitation  was  too  late,  however ;  the  introduction  took 
place ;  Treherne  hurried  it  over ;  though  I  listened  acutely, 
I  could  not  be  certain  of  the  name.  It  seemed  to  be,  as  I 
already  believed,  Johiison. 

Treherne' s  beauty  met  him,  aU  smiles,  and  he  marched 
ofi"  by  her  side  in  a  most  determined  manner,  the  eldest  sis- 
ter following  and  joining  the  pair,  doubtless  to  the  displeas- 
ure of  one  or  both.  She,  whom  I  did  not  remember  seeing 
before,  is  a  little  sharp-speaking  woman,  pretty,  but  faded- 
looking,  with  very  black  eyes. 

The  other  sister,  left  behind,  fell  in  with  me.  We  walk- 
ed side  by  side  through  the  church-yard,  and  into  the  road. 
As  I  held  the  wicket-gate  open  for  her  to  pass,  she  looked 
up,  smiled,  and  said, 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  remember  me.  Doctor  Urquhart  ?" 

I  replied,  "  Yes,  I  did ;"  that  she  was  the  young  lady  who 
"  hated  soldiers." 

She  blushed  extremely,  glanced  at  Treherne,  and  said, 
not  without  dignity, 

"  It  would  be  a  j^ity  to  remember  ah  the  fooHsh  things  I 
have  uttered,  especially  on  that  evening." 

"  I  was  not  aware  they  were  foohsh ;  the  impression  left 
on  me  was  that  we  had  had  a  very  pleasant  conversation, 
which  included  far  more  sensible  topics  than  are  usually 
discussed  at  balls." 

"  You  do  not  often  go  to  balls  ?" 

":t^o." 

"Do  you  dislike  them ?" 

"  Not  always." 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  wrong  ?" 

I  smiled  at  her  cross-questioning,  which  had  something 
fresh  and  unsophisticated  about  it,  like  the  inquisitiveness 
of  a  child. 


O'^  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

•  ".Really,  I  have  never  very  deeply  considered  the  ques- 
tion ;  my  going,  or  not  going,  is  purely  a  matter  of  indi- 
vidual choice.  I  went  to  the  Cedars  that  night  because 
Mrs.  Granton  was  so  kind  as  to  wish  it,  and  I  was  only  too 
happy  to  please  her.  I  hke  her  extremely,  and  owe  her 
much." 

"  She  is  a  very  good  woman,"  was  the  earnest  answer. 
"  And  Cohn  has  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world." 

I  assented,  though  amused  at  the  superlatives  in  which 
very  young  people  delight ;  but,  in  this  case,  not  so  far 
away  from  truth  as  ordinarily  happens. 

"  You  know  Colin  Granton — have  you  seen  him  lately — 
yesterday,  I  mean  ?  Did  Captain  Treherne  see  him  yester- 
day?" 

The  anxiety  with  which  the  question  was  put  reminded 
me  of  something  Treherne  had  mentioned,  which  implied 
his  rivalry  with  Granton ;  perhaps  this  kind-hearted  damsel 
thought  there  would  be  a  single-handed  combat  on  our  pa- 
rade-ground, between  the  accepted  and  rejected  swains.  I 
allayed  her  fears  by  observmg  that,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge Mr.  Granton  had  gone  up  to  London  on  Saturday 
morning,  and  would  not  return  till  Tuesday.  Then,  our 
eyes  meetmg,  we  both  looked  conscious ;  but,  of  course, 
neither  the  young  lady  nor  myself  made  any  allusion  to 
present  circumstances. 

I  said,  generally,  that  Granton  was  a  fine  young  fellow, 
not  over  sentimental,  nor  likely  to  feel  any  thing  very  deep- 
ly ;  but  gifted  with  great  good  sense,  sufficient  to  make  an 
admirable  country  squire,  and  one  of  the  best  landlords  in 
the  county,  if  only  he  could  be  brought  to  feel  the  import- 
ance of  his  position. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  His  responsibility,  as  a  man  of  fortune,  to  make  the 
most  of  his  wealth." 

"  But  how  ?  what  is  there  for  him  to  do  ?" 

"  Plenty,  if  he  could  only  be  got  to  do  it." 

"  Could  you  not  get  him  to  do  it  ?"  with  another  look  of 
the  eager  eyes. 

"  I  ?     I  know  so  very  little  of  the  young  man." 

"But  you  have  so  much  influence,  I  hear,  over  every 
body.  That  is,  Mrs.  Granton  says.  We  have  known  the 
Grantons  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

From  her  blush,  which  seemed  incessantly  to  come,  sud- 
den and  sensitive  as  a  child's,  I  imagined  that  time  was  not 


A  LITE   FOR   A   LIFE.  53 

SO  very  long  ago,  until  she  said  something  about  "  my  youn- 
gest sister,"  Avhich  pro^d  I  had  been  mistaken  in  her  age. 

It  was  easier  to  talk  to  a  young  girl  sitting  forlorn  by 
herself  in  a  ball-room,  than  to  a  grown-up  lady,  walking  in 
broad  daylight,  accompanied  by  two  other  ladies,  who, 
though  clergymen's  daughters,  are  as  stylish  fashionables 
as  ever  irritated  my  sober  vision.  She  did  not,  I  must  con- 
fess ;  she  seemed  to  be  the  plain  one  of  the  family :  imno- 
ticed — one  might  almost  guess,  neglected.  Nor  was  there 
any  flightiness  or  coquettishness  in  her  manner,  which, 
though  abrupt  and  original,  was  quiet  even  to  demureness. 

Pursuing  my  hobby  of  anatomizing  character,  I  studied 
her  a  good  deal  during  the  pauses  of  conversation,  of  which 
there  were  not  a  few.  Compared  with  Treherne,  whom  I 
heard  in  advance,  laughing  and  talking  with  his  usual  light- 
heartedness,  she  must  have  found  me  uncommonly  sombre 
and  dull. 

Yet  it  was  pleasant  to  be  strolKng  leisurely  along,  one's 
feet  dropping  softly  down  through  rusthng  dead  leaves  into 
the  dry,  sandy  mould  which  is  peculiar  to  this  neighbor- 
hood :  you  may  walk  in  it,  ankle-deep,  for  miles,  across 
moors  and  under  pine- woods,  without  soiling  a  shoe.  Pleas- 
ant to  see  the  sunshine  striking  the  boug^hs  of  the  trees, 
and  lying  in  broad,  bright  rifts  on  the  ground  here  and 
there,  wherever  there  was  an  opening  hi  the  dense  green 
tops  of  those  fine  Scotch  firs,  the  like  of  which  I  have  never 
beheld  out  of  my  own  country,  nor  there,  since  I  was  quite 
a  boy.  Also,  the  absence  of  other  forest  trees,  the  high  ele- 
vation, the  wide  spaces  of  moorland,  and  the  sandy  soil, 
give  to  the  atmosphere  here  a  rarity  and  freshness  which 
exhilarates,  mentally  and  bodily,  in  no  small  degree. 

I  thank  God  I  have  never  lost  my  love  of  nature ;  never 
ceased  to  feel  an  almost  boyish  thrill  of  delight  in  the  mere 
sunshine  and  fresh  air. 

For  miles  I  could  have  walked  on,  thus  luxm-iating,  with- 
out wishing  to  disturb  my  enjoyment  by  a  word,  but  it 
was  necessary  to  "converse  a  little,  so  I  made  the  valuable 
and  origmal  remark  "  that  this  neighborhood  would  be  very 
pretty  in  the  spring." 

My  companion  replied  with  a  vivacity  of  indignation  most 
unlike  a  grown  young  lady  and  exceedingly  like  a  child : 

"  Pretty  ?  It  is  beautiful !  You  can  never  have  seen  it, 
I  am  sure." 

I  said,  "  My  regiment  did  not  come  home  till  May ;  I  had 
spent  this  spring  in  the  Crimea." 


54  A  LIFE   FOR  A  LIFE. 

"  All !  the  spring  flowers  there,  I  have  heard,  are  remark- 
ably beautiful,  much  more  so  than  ours." 

"  Yes ;"  and  as  she  seemed  fond  of  flowers,  I  told  her  of 
the  great  abundance  which  in  the  peaceful  spring  that  fol- 
lowed the  war,  we  had  noticed,  carpeting  with  a  mass  of 
color  those  dreary  plains ;  the  large  Crimean  snow-drops, 
the  jonquils,  and  blue  hyacinths,  growing  in  myriads  about 
Balaclava  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Tchernaya ;  while  on  ev- 
ery rocky  dingle,  and  dipping  into  every  tiny  brook,  hung 
bushes  of  the  dehcate  yellow  jasmine. 

"  How  lovely !  But  I  would  not  exchange  England  for 
it.  You  should  see  how  the  primroses  grow  all  among  that 
bank,  and  a  little  beyond,  outside  the  wood,  is  a  hedge-side, 
which  will  be  one  mass  of  blue-bells." 

",I  shall  look  for  them.  I  have  often  found  blue-bells  till 
the  end  of  October." 

"  I^onsense !"  What  a  laugh  it  was,  with  such  a  merry 
ring.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Doctor  Urquhart,  but,  really, 
blue-bells  in  October !     Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  I  assure  you  I  have  found  them  myself,  in  sheltered 
places,  both  the  larger  and  smaller  species ;  the  one  that 
grows  from  a  single  stem,  and  that  which  produces  two  or 
three  bells  from  the  same  stalk — ^the  campanula — shall  I 
give  you  its  botanical  name  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean — liare-heUP 

"  Blue-bell ;  the  real  blue-bell  of  Scotland.  What  you 
call  blue-beUs  are  wild  hyacinths." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  pretty  persistence. 

"  l^o,  no ;  I  have  always  called  them  blue-bells,  and  I  al- 
ways shall.  Many  a  scolding  have  I  got  about  them  when 
I  used,  on  cold  March  days,  to  steal  a  basket  and  a  kitchen 
knife,  to  dig  them  up  before  the  buds  were  formed,  so  as 
to  transplant  them  safely  in  time  to  flower  in  my  garden. 
Many's  the  knife  I  broke  over  that  vain  quest.  Do  you 
know  how  difiicult  it  is  to  get  at  the  bulb  of  a  blue-bell  ?" 

"  Wild  hyacinth,  if  you  please." 

"Blue-bell,"  she  laughingly  persisted.  "I  have  some- 
times picked  out  a  fine  one,  growing  in  some  easy,  soft 
mould,  and  undermined  him,  and  worked  round  him,  ten 
inches  deep,  fancying  I  had  got  to  the  root  of  him  at  last, 
when  slip  went  the  knife,  and  all  was  over.  Many  a  time 
I  have  sat  with  the  cut-ojQT  stalk  in  my  hand,  the  long,  white, 
slender  stalk,  ending  in  two  delicate  green  leaves,  with  a 
tiny  bud  between — you  know  it ;  and  actually  cried,  not 


A   LIFE   FOB   A  LIFE.  55 

only  for  vexation  over  lost  labor,  but  because  it  seemed 
such  a  pity  to  have  destroyed  what  one  never  could  make 
ahve  again." 

She  said  that,  looking  right  into  my  face  with  her  inno- 
cent eyes. 

This  girl,  from  her  habit  of  speaking  exactly  as  she 
thinks,  and  whether  from  her  solitary  country  rearing,  or 
her  innate  simphcity  of  character,  thinking  at  once  more 
naturally  and  originally  than  most  women,  will,  doubtless, 
often  say  things  like  these. 

An  idea  once  or  twice  this  morning  had  flitted  across 
my  mind,  whether  it  would  not  be  better  for  me  to  break 
through  my  hermit  ways,  and  allow  myself  to  pay  occa- 
sional visits  among  happy  households,  or  the  occasional  so- 
ciety of  good  and  cultivated  women ;  now  it  altogether 
vanished.     It  would  be  a  thing  impossible. 

This  young  lady  must  have  very  quick  perceptions,  and 
an  accurate  memory  of  trivial  things,  for  scarcely  had  she 
uttered  the  last  words  when  all  her  face  was  dyed  crimson 
and  red,  as  if  she  thought  she  had  hurt  or  offended  me.  I 
judged  it  best  to  answer  her  thoughts  out  plain. 

"  I  agree  with  you  that  to  kill  wantonly,  even  a  flower, 
is  an  evil  deed.  But  you  need  not  have  minded  saying 
that  to  me,  even  after  our  argument  at  the  Cedars.  I  am 
not  in  your  sense  a  soldier,  a  professed  man-slayer ;  my  vo- 
cation is  rather  the  other  way.  Yet  even  for  the  former  I 
could  find  arguments  of  defense." 

"  You  mean  there  are  higher  things  than  mere  life,  and 
greater  things  than  taking  it  away  ?  So  I  have  been  think- 
ing myself  lately.  You  set  me  thinking,  for  the  which  I 
am  glad  to  own  myself  your  debtor." 

I  had  not  a  word  of  answer  to  this  acknowledgment,  at 
once  frank  and  dignified.     She  went  on  : 

"  K I  said  foolish  or  rude  things  that  night,  you  must  re- 
member how  apt  one  is  to  judge  from  personal  exjDerience, 
and  I  have  never  seen  any  fair  specimen  of  the  army.  Ex- 
cept," and  her  manner  prevented  all  questioning  of  what 
duty  elevated  into  a  truth,  "  except,  of  course,  Captaia  Tre- 
herne." 

He  caught  his  name. 

"  Eh,  good  people.  Saying  nothing  bad  of  me,  I  hope  ? 
Anyhow,  I  leave  my  character  in  the  hands  of  my  friend 
Urquhart.  He  rates  me  soundly  to  my  face,  which  is  the 
best  proof  of  his  not  speaking  ill  of  me  beliind  my  back." 


56  A  LIFE  FOE  A  LIFE. 

"  So  that  is  Doctor  Frquhart's  idea  of  friendship !  bitter 
outside  and  sweet  at  the  core.     What  does  he  make  of 
love,  pray  ?     All  sweet  and  no  bitter  ?" 
"  Or  all  bitter  and  no  sweet  ?" 

These  speeches  came  from  the  two  other  sisters,  the  lat- 
ter from  the  eldest ;  their  flippancy  needed  no  reply,  and  I 
gave  none.  The  second  sister  was  silent,  which  I  thought 
showed  better  taste,  under  the  circumstances. 

For  a  few  minutes  longer  we  sauntered  on,  leaving  the 
wood  and  passing  into  the  sunshine,  which  felt  soft  and 
warm  as  spring.  Then  there  happened — I  have  been  slow 
in  coming  to  it — one  of  those  accidents,  trivial  to  all  but 
me,  which,  whenever  occurring,  seem  to  dash  the  peaceful 
present  out  of  my  grasp,  and  throw  me  back  years — years, 
to  the  time  when  I  had  neither  j)resent  nor  future,  but 
dragged  on  life,.!  scarcely  know  how,  with  every  faculty 
tightly  bound  up  in  an  inexorable,  intolerable  past. 

She  was  carrying  her  prayer-book,  or  Bible  I  think  it 
was,  though  Engiish  people  oftener  carry  to  church  pray- 
er-books than  Bibles,  and  seem  to  reverence  them  quite  as 
much,  or  more.  I  had  noticed  it  as  being  not  one  of  those 
velvet  things,  with  gilt  crosses,  that  ladies  delight  in,  but 
plain-bound,  the  edges  slightly  soiled  as  if  with  continual 
use.  Passing  through  a  gate,  she  dropped  it ;  I  stooped  to 
pick  it  up,  and  there,  on  the  fly  leaf,  I  saw  written : 
"  Theodora  Johnston" — ^^  Johnston.'''' 
Let  me  consider  what  followed,  for  my  memory  is  not 
clear. 

I  believe  I  walked  with  her  to  her  own  dooi;  that  there 
was  a  gathering  and  talking,  which  ended  in  Treherne's 
entering  with  the  ladies,  promising  to  overtake  me  before 
I  reached  the  camp.  That  the  gate  closed  upon  them,  and 
I  heard  their  lively  voices  mside  the  garden  wall  while  I 
walked  rapidly  down  the  road  and  back  into  the  fir  wood. 
That,  gaining  its  shadow  and  shelter,  I  sat  down  on  a  felled 
tree  to  collect  myself. 

Johnson  her  name  is  not,  but  Johnston.  Spelled  precisely 
the  same  as  I  remember  noticing  on  his  handkerchief,  John- 
ston, without  the  final  e. 

Yet,  granting  that  identity,  it  is  still  a  not  uncommon 
name ;  there  are  whole  families,  whole  clans  of  Johnstons 
along  the  Scottish  border,  and  plenty  of  Engiish  Johnstons, 
and  Johnstones  likewise. 

Am  I  fighting  with  shadows,  and  torturing  myself  in 
vain  ?     God  grant  it ! 


A   LIFE  FOR   A  LIFE.  57 

Still,  after  this  discovery,  it  is  vitally  necessary  to  learn 
more.  I  have  sat  up  till  midnight  waiting  Treherne's  re- 
turn. He  did  not  overtake  me — I  never  expected  he  would, 
or  desired  it.  I  came  back,  when  I  did  come  back,  another 
way.     His  hut,  next  to  mine,  is  still  silent  and  unoccupied. 

So  is  the  whole  camp  at  this  hour.  Refreshing  myself 
a  few  minutes  since  by  standing  bare-headed  ^t  my  hut 
door,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  stars  overhead,  and  the  long 
lines  of  lamps  below ;  heard  nothing  but  the  sigh  of  the 
moorland  wind,  and  the  tramp  of  the  sentries  reheving 
guard. 

I  must  wait  a  little  longer ;  to  sleep  would  be  impossi- 
ble, till  I  have  tried  to  find  out  as  much  as  I  can. 

What  if  it  should  be  that — the  worst?  which  might  in- 
evitably produce — or  leave  me  no  reason  longer  to  defer^ — 
the  end. 

Here  it  seemed,  as  if  with  long  pondermg,  my  faculties 
became  torpid.  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  dream,  which  being 
broken  by  a  face  looking  in  at  me  through  the  window,  a 
sickness  of  perfectly  childish  terror  came  over  me.  For 
an  instant  only,  and  then  I  had  put  away  my  writing  ma- 
terials, and  unbolted  the  door. 

Treherno  came  in,  laughing  violently.  "  Why j~  Doctor, 
did  you  take  me  for  a  ghost  ?" 

''^  You  might  have  been.  You  know  what  happened  last 
week  to  those  poor  young  fellows  coming  home  from  a 
dinner-party  in  a  dog-cart." 

"  By  George  I  do  !"  The  thought  of  this  accident,  which 
had  greatly  shocked  the  whole  camp,  sobered  him  at  once. 
"  To  be  knocked  over  in  action  is  one  thing,  but  to  die  mth 
one's  head  under  a  carriage- wheel — ugh!  Doctor,  did  ye 
really  think  something  of  the  sort  had  befallen  me  ?  Thank 
you ;  I  had  no  idea  you  cared  so  much  for  a  harum-scarum 
fellow  like  me." 

He  could  not  be  left  believing  an  untruth ;  so  L  said  my 
startled  looks  were  not  on  his  account ;  the  fact  was,  I  had 
been  writing  closely  for  some  hours,  and  was  nervous, 
rather. 

The  notion  of  my  having  "  nerves"  afforded  him  consid- 
erable amusement.  "  But  that  is  just  what  Dora  persisted 
— good  sort  of  creature,  isn't  she  1  the  one  you  walked  with 
from  church.  I  told  her  you  were  as  strong  as  iron  and  as 
hard  as  a  rock,  and  she  said  she  didn't  believe  it — that 
C  2 


68  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

yours  was  one  of  the  most  sensitive  faces  she  had  ever 
seen." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  Miss  Theodora ;  I  really 
was  not  aware  of  it  myself?' 

"  Nor  I  either,  faith !  but  women  are  so  sharp-sighted. 
Ah !  Doctor,  you  don't  know  half  their  ways." 

I  concluded  he  had  staid  at  Rockmount ;  had  he  spent  a 
pleasant  day  ? 

"  Pleasant  ?  ecstatic.  N'ow  acknowledge,  isn't  she  a  glo- 
rious girl?  Such  a  mouth — such  an  eye — such  an  arm! 
Altogether  a  magnificent  creature.  Don't  you  think  so  ? 
Speak  out — I  shan't  be  jealous." 

I  said,  with  truth,  she  was  an  extremely  handsome  young 
woman. 

"  Handsome  ?  Divine.  But  she's  as  lofty  as  a  queen — 
won't  allow  any  nonsense — ^I  didn't  get  a  kiss  the  whole 
day.  She  will  have  it  we  are  not  even  engaged  till  I  hear 
from  the  governor ;  and  I  can't  get  a  letter  till  Tuesday, 
at  soonest.  Doctor,  it's  maddening.  If  all  is  not  settled 
in  a  week,  and  that  angel  mine  within  six  more — as  she 
says  sTie  wiU  be,  parents  consenting — I  do  beheve  it  will 
drive  me  mad." 

"  Having  her,  or  losing  ?" 

"Either.     She  puts  me  nearly  out  of  my  senses." 
"Sit  down,  then,  and  put  yourself  into  them  again — ^for 
a  few  minutes,  at  least." 

For  I  perceived  the  young  fellow  was  warm  with  some- 
thing besides  love.  He  had  been  solacing  himself  with  wine 
and  cigars  in  the  mess-room.  Intemperance  was  not  one 
of  his  failings,  nor  was  he  more  than  a  httle  excited  now — 
not  by  any  means  what  men  consider  "  overtaken,"  or,  to 
use  the  honester  and  ugher  word,  "  drunk."  Yet,  as  he 
stood  there,  lolling  against  the  door,  with  hot  cheeks  and 
watery  eyes,  talkmg  and  laughing  louder  than  usual,  and  dif- 
fusing an  atmosphere  both  nicotian  and  alcoholic,  I  thought 
it  was  as  well,  on  the  whole,  that  his  divinity  did  not  see 
her  too  human  young  adorer.  I  have  often  pitied  women, 
mothers,  wives,  sisters.  If  they  could  see  sonie  of  us  men 
as  we  often  see  one  another ! 

Treherne  talked  rapturously  of  the  family  at  Rockmount 
— ^the  father  and  the  three  young  ladies. 
I  asked  if  there  were  no  mother. 

"  lS[o.  Died,  I  beheve,  y/hen  my  Lisabel  was  a  baby. 
Lisabel — ^isn't  it  a  pretty  name  ?  Lisabel  Treherne,  better 
still — beats  Lisabel  Johnston  hollow." 


A  LITE   rOE   A  LIFE.  59 

This  seemed  an  opportunity  for  questions  which  must  be 
put ;  safer  put  them  now  than  when  Treherne  was  in  a 
soberer  and  more  observant  mood. 

"  Johnston  is  a  border  name.     Are  they  Scotch  ?" 

"  IsTot  to  my  knowledge — I  never  inquired.  Will,  if  you 
wish,  Doctor.  You  canny  Scots  always  hang  together — 
ha !  ha !  But  I  say,  did  you  ever  see  three  nicer  gMs  ? 
Shouldn't  you  hke  one  of  them  for  yom'self  ?" 

I! 

"  Thank  you — ^I  am  not  a  marrying  man ;  but  you  will 
find  them  a  pleasant  family,  apparently.  Are  there  any 
more  sisters  ?" 

"  N'o — quite  enough  too." 

":N'or  brothers?" 

"  Not  the  ghost  of  one !" 

"Perhaps" — was  it  I,  or  some  mocking  imp  speaking 
through  my  Hps — "  perhaps  only  the  ghost  of  one.  IS^one 
now  living,  probably  ?" 

"  None  at  all  that  I  ever  heard  of.  So  much  the  better ; 
I  shall  have  her  more  to  myself.  Heigho !  it's  an  age  till 
Tuesday." 

"  You'd  better  go  to  your  bed,  and  shorten  the  time  by 
ten  hours." 

"  So  I  will.  Night,  night,  old  fellow,  as  they  teach  little 
brats  to  say  on  disappearing  from  dessert.  'Pon  my  life,  I 
see  myself  the  venerated  head  of  a  household  and  pillar  of 
the  state  already.  You'll  be  quite  proud  of  my  exceeding 
respect  abihty." 

He  put  his  head  in  again,  two  minutes  after,  with  a  nod 
and  a  wink. 

"  I  say,  think  better  of  it.  Try  for  Miss  Dora — ^the  sec- 
ond. Charteris  one,  me  the  other,  and  you  the  thu^d.  What 
a  jolly  lot  of  brothers-in-law.     Do  thhik  better  of  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  go  to  your  bed." 

It  was  not  possible  to  go  to  mine,  till  I  had  arranged  my 
thoughts. 

What  he  stated  must  be  correct.  If  otherwise,  it  is  next 
to  impossible  that,  in  his  position  of  intimacy,  he  should 
not  have  heard  it.  Families  do  not,  I  suppose,  so  easily 
forget,  even  to  the  very  name.  There  must  have  been  only 
these  three  daughters. 

I  may  lay  me  down  m  peace.  Thou  who  seest  not  as 
man  sees,  wilt  Thou  make  it  peace,  even  for  me  ? 


60  A  LIFE   FOR  A  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HER   STORY. 

"  Gone  to  be  married  ?  gone  to  swear  a  peace  ? 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanche,  and  Blanche  those  provinces  ?" 

"Which  means,  "shall  Treherne  have  Lisa,  and  Lisa  Tre- 
herne  Court  ?" 

Yes,  it  is  to  be :  I  suppose  it  must  he.  Though  not  lit- 
erally "  gone  to  be  married,"  they  are  certainly  "  going." 

For  seven  days  the  balance  hung  doubtful.  I  do  not 
know  exactly  what  turned  the  scale ;  sometimes  a  strong 
suspicion  strikes  me  that  it  was  Doctor  Urquhart ;  but  I 
have  given  up  cogitating  on  the  subject.  When  one  is  ut- 
terly powerless — a  mere  iota  in  a  house — when,  whatever 
one  might  desire,  one's  opinion  has  not  a  straw's  weight 
with  any  body,  what  is  the  good  of  vexing  one's  self  in 
vain! 

I  shall  content  myself  with  giving  a  straightforward, 
succinct  account  of  the  week;  this  week  which  I  can  not 
deny,  has  made  a  vital  difference  in  our  family.  Though 
outwardly  all  went  on  as  usual — our  quiet,  monotonous  life 
unbroken  by  a  single  "  event" — breakfast,  dinner,  tea,  and 
sleep  coming  round  in  ordinary  rotation ;  still  the  change 
is  made.     What  a  long  time  it  seems  since  Sunday  week ! 

That  day,  after  the  tumult  of  Saturday,  when  I  fairly 
shut  myself  up  to  escape  out  of  the  way  of  both  suitors, 
the  conung  and  the  going  one — sure  that  neither  of  my 
sisters  would  particularly  want  me — ^that  Sunday  was  not 
a  happy  one.  The  only  pleasant  bit  in  it  was  the  walk 
home  from  church ;  when,  Penelope  mounting  guard  over 
the  lovers,  I  thought  it  no  more  than  right  to  be  civil  to 
Dr.  Urquhart.  Li  so  doing,  I  resolutely  smothered  down 
my  annoyance  at  their  joining  us,  and  at  the  young  gentle-- 
man's  taking  so  much  upon  himself  already,  forsooth ;  lest 
Captain  Treherne's  friend  should  discover  that  I  was  not 
in  the  most  amiable  mood  possible  with  regard  to  this  mar- 
riage. And  in  so  valorously  "putting  myself  into  my 
pocket" — the  bad  self  which  had  been  uppermost  all  day — 
somehow  it  slipped  away,  as  my  pin-cushions  and  pencil- 
cases  are  wont  to  do — slid  down  to  the  earth  and  vanished. 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  61 

I  enjoyed  the  walk.  I  like  talking  to  Dr.  Urquliart,  for 
he  seems  honest.  He  makes  one  feel  as  if  there  were  some 
sohd  good  somewhere  ui  the  world,  if  only  one  could  find 
it ;  instead  of  wandering  among  mere  shams  of  it,  pretenses 
of  heroism,  simulations  of  virtue,  selfish  abortions  of  benev- 
olence. It  seems  to  me,  at  times,  as  if  this  present  world 
were  not  unlike  that  place  in  Hades — is  it  Dante's  or  Vir- 
gil's making  ?  —  where  trees,  beasts,  ghosts,  and  aU,  are 
equally  shadowy  and  unsubstantial.  That  Sunday  morn- 
ing, which  happened  to  be  a  specially  lovely  one,  was  one 
of  the  few  days  lately  when  thuigs  about  me  have  seemed 
tangible  and  real.  Including  myself,  who  not  seldom  ap- 
pear to  myself  as  the  biggest  sham  of  all. 

Dr. Urquhart  left  us  at  the  gate:  would  not  come  in, 
though  Penelope  invited  him.  Indeed,  he  went  away  rath- 
er abruptly,  I  should  say  rudely— but  that  he  is  not  the  sort 
of  man  to  be  easily  suspected  of  discourtesy — Captaui  Tre- 
herne  declared  his  secession  was  not  surprising,  as  he  had 
a  perfect  horror  of  ladies'  society.  In  which  case,  why  did  he 
not  avoid  mine  ?  I  am  sure  he  need  not  have  had  it  unless 
he  chose ;  nor  did  he  behave  as  if  m  a  state  of  great  mar- 
tyrdom. Also,  a  lover  of  flowers  is  not  likely  to  be  a  wom- 
an-hater, or  a  bad  man,  either ;  and  those  must  be  bad  men 
who  have  an  unqualified  "  horror"  of  w^omen.  I  shall  take 
the  hberty,  until  farther  evidence,  of^doubting  Captain  Tre- 
herne — no  novelty !  The  difficulty  is  to  find  any  man  m 
whom  you  can  befieve. 

We  spent  Sunday  afternoon  chiefly  in  the  garden,  Lisabel 
and  her  lover  strolling  about  together,  as  Penelope  and 
Francis  used  to  do. 

Penelope  sat  with  me  some  time,  on  the  terrace  before 
the  drawing-room  windows ;  then  bidding  me  stay  where 
I  was,  and' keep  a  look-out  after  those  two,  lest  they  should 
get  too  sentimental,  she  went  indoors,  and  I  saw  her  after- 
ward, through  the  parlor-window,  writing — probably  one 
of  those  long  letters  which  Francis  gets  every  Monday 
morning.     What  on  earth  can  she  find  to  say  ? 

The  lecture  against  senthnentaUsm  was  needless.  'Noth- 
ing of  that  in  Lisabel.  Her  courtship  will  be  of  the  most 
matter-of-fact  kind.  Every  time  they  passed  me,  she  was 
talking  or  laughing,  l^ot  a  soft  or  serious  look  has  there 
been  on  her  face  since  Friday  night;  or,  rather,  Sunday 
morning,  when  my  sobbing  made  her  shed  a  few  tears. 
She  did  not  afterward — not  even  when  she  told  what  has 
occurred  to  papa  and  Penelope. 


62  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

Penelope  bore  it  well — if  there  was  any  thing  to  bear, 
and  perhaps  there  was — to  her.  It  might  be  trying  to 
have  her  youngest  sister  married  first,  and  to  a  young  man 
but  for  whom  Francis  would  himself  long  ago  have  been  in 
a  position  to  marry.  He  told  us,  on  Saturday,  the  whole 
story :  how,  as  a  boy,  he  Avas  meant  for  his  uncle's  heir,  but 
late  in  life  Sir  WilHam  married.  There  was  a  coldness 
afterward,  till  Mrs.  Charteris  died,  when  her  brother  got 
Francis  this  government  situation,  from  which  we  hoped  so 
much,  but  which  still  continues,  he  says,  "  a  mere  pittance." 
It  is  certainly  rather  hard  for  Francis.  He  had  a  long  talk 
with  papa,  before  he  left,  ending,  as  usual,  in  nothing. 

After  he  went  away,  Penelope  did  not  appear  till  tea- 
time,  and  was  "  as  cross  as  two  sticks,"  to  use  a  childish 
exj)ression,  all  evening.  K  these  are  lover's  visits,  I  hearti- 
ly wish  Francis  would  keep  away. 

She  was  not  in  much  better  humor  on  Sunday,  especially 
when,  coming  hastily  into  the  parlor  with  a  message  from 
Lisabel,  I  gave  her  a  start — for  she  was  sitting,  not  writ- 
ing, but  leaning  over  her  desk,  with  her  fingers  pressed 
upon  her  eyes.  It  startled  me,  too,  to  see  her ;  we  have 
grown  so  used  to  this  affair,  and  Penelope  is  so  sharp-tem- 
pered, that  we  never  seem  to  suspect  her  of  feeling  any 
thing.  I  was  foohsh  enough  to  apologize  for  interrupting, 
and  to  attempt  to  kiss  her,  which  irritated  her  so  that  we 
had  almost  a  quarrel.  I  left  the  room,  put  on  my  bonnet, 
and  went  off  to  evening-church — God  forgive  me !  for  no 
better  purpose  than  to  get  rid  of  home. 

I  wonder,  do  sisters  ever  love  one  another  ?  N'ot  after 
our  fashion,  out  of  mere  habit  and  long  familiarity,  also  a 
certain  pride,  which,  however  we  differ  among  ourselves, 
would  make  us,  I  believe,  defend  one  another  warmly 
against  strangers,  but  out  of  voluntary  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion. Do  families  ever  live  in  open-hearted  union,  feeling 
that  blood  is  blood,  closer  than  acquaintance,  friendship,  or 
any  tie  in  the  world,  except  marriage  ?  That  is,  it  ought 
to  be.  Perhaps  it  may  so  happen  once  in  a  century,  as 
true  love  does,  or  there  would  not  be  so  much  romancing 
about  both. 

Thus  I  meditated,  as,  rather  sick  and  sorry  at  heart,  I  re- 
turned from  church,  trampmg  through  the  dark  lanes  after 
papa,  who  marched  ahead,  crunching  the  sand  and  dead 
leaves  in  his  usual  solid,  solitary  way,  now  and  then  calling 
out  to  me : 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  63 

"Keep  close  behind  me.  What  a  pity  you  came  to 
church  to-night." 

It  was  foohsh,  but  I  think  I  could  have  cried. 

At  home,  we  found  my  sisters  waiting  tea.  Captain  Tre- 
herne  was  gone.  They  never  mentioned  to  papa  that  he 
had  been  at  Rockmount  to-day. 

On  Monday,  he  did  not  make  his  appearance.  I  asked 
Lisabel  if  she  had  expected  him  ? 

"  What  for  ?  I  don't  wish  the  young  man  to  be  always 
tied  to  my  apron-strings." 

"  But  he  might  natm*ally  want  to  see  you." 

"  Let  him  want  then.  My  dear  httle  simpleton,  it  will 
do  him  good.  The  less  he  has  of  me,  the  more  he  will 
value  me." 

I  observed  that  that  was  an  odd  doctrine  with  which  to 
begin  married  hfe,  but  she  laughed  at  me,  and  said  the  cases 
were  altogether  different. 

Nevertheless,  when  Tuesday  also  passed,  and  no  word 
from  her  adorer,  Lisabel  looked  a  little  less  easy.  Xot  un- 
happy, our  Lis  was  never  seen  unhappy  since  she  was  born, 
but  just  a  little  what  we  women  call  "  fidgety  j"  a  state  of 
mind,  the  result  of  which  generally  affects  other  people 
rather  than  ourselves.  Li  short,  the  mood  for  which,  as 
children,  we  are  whipped  and  sent  to  bed  as  "  naughty ;" 
as  young  women,  petted,  and  pitied  for  "  low  spirits ;"  as 
elderly  people,  humored  on  account  of  "  nerves." 

On  Wednesday  mormng  when  the  post  came,  and  brought 
no  letter,  Lisabel  declared  she  would  stay  in-doors  no  lon- 
ger, but  w^ould  go  out  for  a  drive. 

"  To  the  camp,  as  usual  ?"  said  Penelope. 

Lisa  laughed,  and  protested  she  should  drive  wherever 
she  liked. 

"Girls,  will  you  come  or  not?" 

Penelope  declined,  shortly.  I  said,  I  would  go  any  where 
except  to  the  camp,  which  I  thought  decidedly  objection- 
able under  the  circumstances. 

"  Dora,  don't  be  silly.  But  do  just  as  you  like.  I  can 
call  at  the  Cedars  for  Miss  Emery." 

"  And  Coliu  too,  who  will  be  exceedingly  happy  to  go 
with  you,"  suggested  Penelope.    . 

But  the  sneer  was  wasted.  Lisabel  laughed  again, 
smoothed  her  collar  at  the  glass,  and  left  the  parlor,  look- 
ing as  contented  as  ever. 

Ere  she  went  out,  radiant  in  her  new  hat  and  feathers, 


64  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

her  blue  cloth  jacket,  and  her  damty  Httle  driving-gloves 
(won  in  a  bet  with  Captain  Treherne),  she  put  her  head  in 
at  my  door,  where  I  was  working  at  German,  and  trying 
to  forget  all  these  follies  and  annoyances. 

"  You'll  not  go,  then  ?" 

I  shook  my  head,  and  asked  when  she  intended  to  be 
back? 

"  Probably  at  limch :  or  I  may  stay  dinner  at  the  Cedars. 
Jnst  as  it  happens.     Good-by." 

"  Lisabel,"  I  cried,  catching  her  by  the  shoulders,  "•  what 
are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I  told  you.  Oh,  take  care  of  my  feather !  I  shall  drive 
over  to  the  Cedars." 

"  Any  farther  ?     To  the  camp  ?" 

"  It  depends  entirely  upon  circumstances." 

"  Suppose  you  should  meet  him  ?" 

"  Captain  Treherne  ?     I  shall  bow  pohtely,  and  drive  on." 

"  And  what  if  he  comes  here  in  your  absence  ?" 

"  My  compliments  and  regrets  that  unavoidable  engage- 
ments deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him." 

"  Lisabel,  I  don't  believe  you  have  a  bit  of  heart  m  you." 

"  Oh,  yes  I  have ;  quite  as  much  as  is  convenient." 

Mine  was  full,  and  she  saw  it.  She  patted  me  on  the 
shoulder  good-naturedly. 

"  If  there  ever  was  a  dear  little  dolt,  its  name  is  Theo- 
dora Johnston.  Why,  child,  at  the  worst,  what  harm  am  I 
doing  ?  Merely  showing  a  young  fellow,  who,  I  must  say, 
is  behaving  rather  badly,  that  I  am  not  breaking  my  heart 
about  him,  nor  mean  to  do  it." 

"  But  I  thought  you  hked  him  ?" 

"So  I  do ;  but  not  in  your  sentimental  sort  of  way.  I 
am  a  practical  person.  I  told  him,  exactly  as  papa  told 
him,  that  if  he  came  with  his  father's  consent  I  would  be 
engaged  to  him  at  once,  and  marry  him  as  soon  as  he  liked. 
Otherwise,  let  him  go !  That's  all.  Don't  fret,  child ;  I 
am  quite  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

Truly  she  was !  But  I  thought,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  cer- 
tainly should  not  trouble  myself  to  go  crazy  after  a  wom- 
an, if  men  ever  do  such  a  thing. 

Scarcely  was  my  sister  gone,  than  I  had  the  opportunity 
of  considering  that  latter  possibihty.  I  was  called  down 
stairs  to  Captain  Treherne.  !N"ever  did  I  see  an  unfortunate 
youth  in  such  a  state  of  mind. 

What  passed  between  us  I  can  not  set  down  clearly^  it 


A  LIPE   EOE   A  UFE.  65 

was  on  Ms  side  so  incoherent,  on  mine  so  awkward  and  im- 
comfortable.  I  gathered  that  he  had  just  had  a  letter  from 
his  father,  refusing  consent,  or,  at  least,  insisting  on  the  de- 
lay of  the  marriage,  which  his  friend,  Dr.  Urquhart,  also 
advised.  Exceedingly  obhged  to  that  gentleman  for  his 
pohte  interference  in  our  family  affairs,  thought  I. 

The  poor  lover  seemed  so  much  in  earnest  that  I  pitied 
him.  Missing  Lisabel,  he  had  asked  to  see  me,  in  order  to 
know  where  she  was  gone. 

I  told  him  to  the  Cedars.  He  turned  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"Serves  me  right,  serves  me  right, for  my  confounded 
folly  and  cowardice.  I  never  will  take  any  body's  advice 
again.  What  did  she  think  of  my  keeping  away  so  long  ? 
Did  she  despise — hate  me  ?" 

I  said  my  sister  had  not  confided  to  me  any  such  opinion 
of  him. 

"  She  shall  not  meet  Granton,  that  fool,  that  knave,  that — 
Could  I  overtake  her  before  she  reaches  the  Cedars  ?" 

I  informed  him  of  a  short  cut  across  the  moor,  and  he 
was  out  of  the  house  in  two  minutes,  before  Penelope  came 
into  the  drawing-room. 

Penelope  said  I  had  done  exceedingly  wrong — ^that  to 
send  him  after  our  Lisa,  and  allow  her  to  be  seen  driving 
with  him  about  the  country,  was  the  height  of  indecorum 
— ^that  I  had  no  sense  of  family  dignity,  or  prudence,  or 
propriety,  was  not  a  woman  at  all,  but  a  mere  sentimental 
book-worm. 

I  answered,  I  was  glad  of  it,  if  to  be  a  woman  was  to  re- 
semble the  woman  I  knew  best. 

A  bitter,  wicked  sj)eech,  bitterly  repented  of  when  ut- 
tered. Penelope  has  a  sharp  tongue,  though  she  does  not 
know  it ;  but  when  she  rouses  mme,  I  do  know  it,  therefore 
am  the  more  guilty.  Many  an  unkind  or  sarcastic  word 
that  women  drop,  as  carelessly  as  a  minute  seed,  often  fruc- 
tifies into  a  whole  gardenful  of  noisome  weeds,  sprung  up, 
they  have  forgotten  how,  but  the  weeds  are  there.  Yet 
still  I  can  not  always  command  my  tongue.  Even,  some- 
times, when  I  do,  the  efibrt  makes  me  think  all  the  more 
angrily  of  Penelope. 

It  was  not  now  in  an  angry,  but  a  humbled  spirit,  that 
when  Penelope  was  gone  to  her  district  visiting — she  does 
far  more  in  the  parish  than  either  Lis  or  I — I  went  out 
alone,  as  usual,  upon  the  moor. 


66  A  LIFE  FOE  A  LIFE. 

My  moorlands  looked  dreary ;  the  heather  is  fading  from 
pm'ple  to  brown;  the  autumn  days  are  coming  on  fast. 
That  afternoon  they  had  that  leaden  uniformity  which  al- 
ways weighs  me  down.  I  felt  weary,  hopeless — ^longed  for 
some  change  in  my  dull  hfe ;  wished  I  were  a  boy,  a  man 
— any  thing,  so  that  I  might  be  something — do  something. 

Thus  thinking,  so  deeply  that  I  noticed  little,  some  one 
overtook  and  passed  me.  It  is  so  rare  to  meet  any  one 
above  the  rank  of  a  laborer  hereabout,  that  I  looked  round 
and  saw  it  was  Doctor  Urquhart.  He  recognized  me,  ap- 
parently ;  mechanically  I  bowed,  so  did  he,  and  went  on. 

This  broke  the  chain  of  my  thoughts ;  they  wandered  to 
my  sister,  Captain  Treherne,  and  this  Doctor  Urquhart,  with 
whom,  now  I  came  to  think  of  it — I  had  not  done  so  in 
the  instant  of  his  passing — I  felt  justly  displeased.  What 
right  had  he  to  meddle  with  my  sister's  affairs — ^to  give  his 
sage  advice  to  his  obedient  young  friend,  who  was  foolish 
enough  to  ask  it  ?  Would  I  marry  a  man  who  went  con- 
sulting his  near,  dear,  and  particular  friends,  as  to  whether 
they  were  pleased  to  consider  me  a  suitable  wife  for  him  ? 
!N^ever !  Let  him  out  of  his  own  will  love  me,  choose  me, 
and  win  me,  or  leave  me  alone. 

So,  perhaps,  the  blame  lay  more  at  Mr.  Treherne's  door 
than  his  friend's,  whom  I  could  not  call  either  a  bad  man  or 
a  designing  man,  his  countenance  forbade  it.  Surely  I  had 
been  mijust  to  him. 

He  might  have  known  this,  and  wished  to  give  me  a 
chance  of  penitence,  for  I  shortly  saw  his  figure  reappearing 
over  the  slope:  of  the  road,  returning  toward  me.  Should  I 
go  back  ?  But  that  would  seem  too  pointed,  and  we  should 
only  exchange  another  formal  bow. 

I  was  mistaken.  He  stopped,  bade  me  "  good-morning," 
made  some  remarks  about  the  weather,  and  then  abruptly 
told  me  that  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  turning  back  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  speak  to  me. 

I  thought,  whatever  will  Penelope  say !  This  escapade 
wiU  be  more  "improper"  than  Lisabel's,  though  my  friend 
is  patriarchal  in  his  age  and  preternatural  in  his  gravity. 
But  the  mischievous  spirit,  together  with  a  little  uncomfort- 
able surprise,  went  out  of  me  when  I  looked  at  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart. Li  spite  of  himself,  his  whole  manner  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly nervous  that  I  became  quite  myself,  if  only  out 
of  compassion. 

"  May  I  presume  on  our  acquaintance  enough  to  ask  you 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.        '  67 

a  question — simple  enough,  but  of  great  moment  to  me.  Is 
Captain  Treherne  at  yom-  house  ?" 

"No" 

"Has  he  been  there  to-day?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  see  you  thuik  me  extremely  impertinent." 

"  'Not  impertinent,  but  more  inquisitive  than  I  consider 
justifiable  in  a  stranger.  I  really  can  not  engage  to  answer 
anymore  questions  concerning  my  family  or  acquaintance." 

"  Certainly  not.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  will  wish  you 
good-morning." 

"  Good-morning." 

But  he  lingered. 

"  You  are  too  candid  yourself  not  to  permit  candor  in 
me.  May  I,  in  excuse,  state  my  reasons  for  thus  interrupt- 
ing you." 

I  assented. 

"  You  are  aware  that  I  know,  and  have  known  all  along, 
the  present  relations  of  my  friend  Treherne  with  your  fam- 
ily?" 

"  I  had  rather  not  discuss  that  subject.  Doctor  Urquhart." 

"  No ;  but  it  will  account  for  my  asking  questions  about 
Captain  Treherne.  He  left  me  this  morning  in  a  state  of 
the  greatest  excitement.  And  at  his  age,  with  his  tempera- 
ment, there  is  no  knowing  to  what  a  young  man  may  not 
be  driven." 

"  At  present,  I  beheve,  to  nothing  worse  than  the  Cedars, 
with  my  sister  as  his  charioteer." 

"  You  are  satirical." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  obhged  to  you." 

Doctor  Urquhart  regarded  me  with  a  sort  of  benignant 
smile,  as  if  I  were  a  naughty  child,  whose  naughtiness  part- 
ly grieved  and  partly  amused  him. 

"  If,  in  warrant  of  my  age  and  my  profession,  you  will 
allow  me  a  few  words  of  serious  conversation  with  you,  I, 
in  my  tm-n,  shall  be  exceedingly  obhged." 

"  You  are  welcome." 

"  Even  if  I  speak  about  your  sister  and  Captain  Tre- 
herne ?" 

There  he  roused  me. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart,  I  do  not  see  that  you  have  the  slight- 
est right  to  interfere  about  my  sister  and  Captain  Treherne. 
He  may  choose  to  make  you  his  confidant — I  shall  not ;  and 
I  think  very  meanly  of  any  man  who  brings  a  third  person, 


68  A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

either  as  umpire  or  go-between,  betwixt  himself  and  the 
woman  he  professes  to  love." 

Doctor  IJrquhart  looked  at  me  again  fixedly,  with  that 
curious,  half-melancholy  smile,  before  he  spoke. 

"  At  least,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  believe  one  thing — I  am 
not  that  go-between." 

He  was  so  very  gentle  with  me  in  my  wrath,  that,  per- 
force, I  could  not  be  angry.  I  turned  homeward,  and  he 
turned  with  me  ;  but  I  was  determined  not  to  give  him  an- 
other syllable. 

^Nevertheless,  he  spoke. 

"  Since  we  have  said  thus  much,  may  I  be  allowed  one 
word  more  ?  This  matter  has  begun  to  give  me  extreme 
uneasiness.  It  is  doing  Treherne  much  harm.  He  is  an 
only  son,  the  son  of  his  father's  old  age ;  on  him  much  hope 
rests.  He  is  very  young — I  never  knew  him  to  be  serious 
in  any  thing  before.  He  is  serious  in  his  attachment — I 
mean  in  his  ardent  desire  to  marry  your  sister." 
'     "  You  think  so  ?     We  are  deeply  indebted  to  him." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  when  we  are  "talking  on  a  matter 
so  important,  and  which  concerns  you  so  nearly,  it  is  a  pity 
to  reply  in  that  tone." 

To  be  reproved  in  this  way  by  a  man  and  a  stranger !  I 
was  so  astonished  Ihat  it  made  me  dumb.    He  continued : 

"  You  are  aware  that,  for  the  present,  Sir  William's  con- 
sent has  been  refused  ?" 

"  I  am  aware  of  it." 

"  And  indignant,  probably.  Yet  there  are  two  sides  to 
this  subject.  It  is  rather  trying  to  an  old  man,  when  his 
son  writes  suddenly  and  insists  upon  bringing  home  a 
daughter-in-law,  however  charming,  in  six  weeks ;  natural, 
too,  that  the  father  should  urge — '  Take  time  to  consider, 
niy  dear  boy.' " 

"  Very  natural." 

"  Nay,  should  he  go  farther,  and  wish  some  information 
respecting  the  lady  who  is  to  become  one  of  his  family — 
desire  to  know  her  family,  in  order  to  judge  more  of  one 
on  whom  are  to  depend  his  son's  happiness  and  his  house 
and  honor,  you  would  not  think  him  unjust  or  tyrannical '?" 

"  Of  course  not.  We,"  I  said,  with  some  pride,  alas ! 
more  pride  than  truth,  "  we  should  exact  the  same." 

"  I  know  Sir  William  well,  and  he  trusts  me.  You  v/ill, 
perhaps,  understand  how  this  trust  and  the — the  flexible 
character  of  his  son,  make  me  feel  painfully  responsible. 


A   LLFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  69 

Also,  I  know  what  youth  is  when  thwarted.  If  that  young 
fellow  should  go  wrong,  it  would  be  to  me — you  can  not 
conceive  how  painful  it  would  be  to  me." 

His  hands  nervously  working  one  over  the  other,  the  sor- 
rowful expression  of  his  eyes,  indicated  sufficient  emotion 
to  make  me  extremely  grieved  for  this  good-hearted  man. 
I  am  sure  he  is  good-hearted. 

I  said  I  could  not,  of  course,  feel  the  same  interest  that  he 
did  in  Captain  Treherne,  but  that  I  wished  the  young  man 
well.    • 

"  Can  you  tell  me  one  thing ;  is  your  sister  really  attach- 
ed to  him  ?" 

This  sudden  question,  which  I  had  so  many  times  asked 
of  myself — ought  I  to  reply  to  it  ?  Could  I  ?  Only  by  a 
prevarication. 

"  Mr.  Treherne  is  the  best  person  from  whom  to  obtain 
that  information." 

And  I  began  to  walk  quicker,  as  a  hint  that  this  very  odd 
conversation  had  lasted  quite  long  enough. 

"  I  shall  not  detain  you  two  minutes,"  my  companion 
said,  hastily.  "  It  is  a  strange  confidence  to  put  in  you,  and 
yet  I  feel  I  may.  Sir  William  wrote  to  me  privately  to-day. 
On  my  answer  to  his  mquiries.  his  consent  will  mainly  de- 
pend." 

"What  does  he  want  to  know  ?  If  we  are  respectable ; 
if  we  have  any  money;  if  we  have  been  decently  educated ; 
so  that  our  connection  shall  not  disgrace  his  family  ?" 

"You  are  almost  justified  in  being  angry;  but  I  said 
nothing  of  the  kind.  His  questions  only  referred  to  the 
personal  worth  of  the  lady,  and  her  personal  attachment  to 
his  son." 

"  My  poor  Lisa !  That  she  should  have  her  character 
asked  for  hke  a  housemaid  !  That  she  should  be  admitted 
into  a  grand  family,  condescendiagiy,  on  sufferance !" 

"  You  quite  mistake,"  said  Doctor  Urquhart,  earnestly. 
"  You  are  so  angry,  that  you  will  not  listen  to  what  I  say. 
Sir  WiOiam  is  wealthy  enough  to  be  indifferent  to  money. 
Birth  and  position  he  might  desii'e,  and  his  son  has  already 
satisfied  him  upon  yom'S ;  that  your  father  is  a  clergyman, 
and  that  you  come  of  an  old  English  family." 

"  We  do  not ;  we  come  of  nothing  and  nobody.  My 
grandfather  was  a  farmer;  he  wrote  his  name  Johnson, 
plain,  plebeian  Johnson.  We  are,  by  right,  no  Johnstons 
at  all." 


^0  A  LIFE   POK   A   LIFE. 

The  awful  announcement  had  not  the  effect  I  anticipated. 
True,  Doctor  Urqnhart  started  a  Httle,  and  walked  on  si- 
lently for  some  minutes,  but  when  he  turned  his  face  round 
it  was  quite  beaming. 

"If  I  did  tell  this  to  Sir  William,  he  is  too  honorable  a 
man  not  to  value  honor  and  honesty  in  any  family,  whether 
plebeian,  as  you  call  it,  or  not.  Pardon  me  this  long  intru- 
sion, with  all  my  other  offenses.    Will  you  shake  hands  ?" 

We  did  so — quite  friendly,  and  parted. 

I  found  Lisabel  at  home.  By  some  chance,  she  had  miss- 
ed the  Grantons,  and  Captain  Treherne  had  missed  her ;  I 
know  not  of  which  accident  I  was  the  most  glad. 

Frankly  and  plainly,  as  seemed  to  me  best,  I  told  her  of 
my  meeting  Doctor  IJrquhart,  and  of  all  that  had  passed 
between  us ;  saving  only  the  fact  of  Sir  William's  letter  to 
hun,  which,  as  he  said  it  was  "  in  confidence,"  I  felt  I  was 
not  justified  in  communicating  even  to  my  sister. 

She  took  every  thing  very  easily — laughed  at  Mr.  Tre- 
herne's  woes,  called  him  "  poor  fellow,"  was  sure  all  would 
come  right  in  time,  and  went  up  stairs  to  dress  for  dinner. 

On  Thursday  she  got  a  letter  from  him  which  she  gave 
me  to  read — very  passionate  and  full  of  nonsense.  I  won- 
der any  man  can  write  such  rubbish,  or  any  woman  care 
to  read  it — still  more  to  show  it.  It  gave  no  information 
on  facts — only  implored  her  to  see  him ;  which,  in  a  neat 
httle  note,  also  given  for  my  perusal,  Lisabel  declined. 

On  Friday  evening,  just  after  the  lamp  was  lit  and  we 
were  all  sitting  round  the  tea-table,  who  should  send  in  his 
card  with  a  message  begging  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
with  Mr.  Johnston,  but  Doctor  Urquhart  ?  "  Max  IJrqu- 
hart, M.D.,"  as  his  card  said.  How  odd  he  should  be  called 
"Max." 

Papa,  roused  from  his  nap,  desired  the  visitor  to  be  shown 
in,  and  with  some  difiiculty  I  made  him  understand  that  this 
was  the  gentleman  Mrs.  Granton  had  spoken  of — also — as 
Penelope  added  ill-naturedly,  "  the  particular  friend  of  Caj)- 
tain  Treherne." 

This — for,  though  he  has  said  nothing,  I  am  sure  he  has 
understood  what  has  been  going  on — made  papa  stand  up 
rather  frigidly  when  Doctor  Urquhart  entered  the  joarlor. 
He  did  so  hesitatingly,  as  if,  coming  out  of  the  dark  night, 
the  blaze  of  our  lamp  confused  him.  I  noticed  he  put  his 
hand  to  shade  his  .eyes. 

"Doctor  Urquhart,  I  believe?  Mrs.  Granton's  friend^ 
and  Captain  Treherne's?" 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  Vl 

"  The  same." 

"  Wm  you  be  seated  ?" 

He  took  a  chair  opposite  ;  and  he  and  papa  scanned  one 
another  closely.  I  canght,  in  Doctor  Urquhart's  face,  that 
peciihar  imeasy  expression  about  the  mouth.  What  a  com- 
fort a  beard  must  be  to  a  nervous  person ! 

A  few  common-place  remarks  passed,  aijd  then  om'  vis- 
itor asked  if  he  might  speak  with  papa  alone.  He  was  the 
bearer  of  a  message — a  letter  in  short — ^from  Sir  Wilham 
Treherne,  of  Treherne  Court. 

Papa  said,  stiffly — ^he  had  not  the  honor  of  that  gentle- 
man's acquaintance. 

"  Sir  William  hopes,  nevertheless,  to  have  the  honor  of 
making  yours." 

Lisabel  pinched  me  imder  the  table;  Penelope  gazed 
steadily  into  the  tea-pot ;  papa  rose  and  walked  solemnly 
into  his  study — ^Doctor  IJrquhart  following. 

It  was — as  Lisa  cleverly  expressed  it,  "  all  right."  All 
parties  concerned  had  given  full  consent  to  the  marriage. 

Captain  Treherne  came  the  day  following  to  Rockmount, 
in  a  state  of  exuberant  felicity,  the  overplus  of  which  he 
vented  in  kissing  Penelope  and  me,  and  requesting  us  to 
call  him  "  Augustus."  I  am  afraid  I  could  wiUingiy  have 
dispensed  with  either  ceremony. 

Doctor  Urquhart  we  have  not  seen  again,  he  was  not  at 
chm-ch  yesterday.  Papa  intends  to  invite  him  to  dinner 
shortly.     He  says  he  hkes  him  very  much. 


CHAPTER  YH. 

HIS    STOEY. 

Hospital  work,  rather  heavy  tliis  week,  with  other  things 
of  lesser  moment,  have  stopped  this  my  correspondence  with 
an  "  airy  nothing ;"  however,  the  blank  will  not  be  missed — ■ 
naught  concerning  Max  Urquhart  would  be  missed  by  any 
body. 

Pardon,  fond  and  faithful  l!^obody,  for  whose  benefit  I 
write,  and  for  whose  good  opinion!  am  naturally  anxious. 
I  beheve  two  or  three  people  would  miss  me,  my  advice 
and  conversation,  in  the  hospital. 

By-the-by,  Thomas  Hardmau,  to  my  extreme  satisfaction, 
seems  really  reforming.    His  wife  told  me  he  has  not  taken 


72  A  LIFE   POK   A   LIFE. 

a  drop  too  mucli  since  he  came  out  of  the  hospital.  She 
says  "  this  iUness  was  the  savmg  of  him,  since,  if  he  had 
been  flogged,  or  discharged  for  drmikenness,  he  would  have 
been  a  drunkard  all  his  days."     So  far,  so  good. 

I  was  writing  about  being  missed,  literally,  by  Nobody. 
And,  truly,  this  seems  fair  enough ;  for  is  there  any  body  I 
should  miss  ?  Have  I  missed,  or  been  relieved  by  the  lost 
company  of  my* young  friend  who  has  so  long  haunted  my 
hut,  but  who,  now,  at  an  amazing  expense  in  carriage-hire, 
horse-flesh,  and  shoe-leather,  manages  to  spend  every  avail- 
able minute  at  a  much  more  lively  abode,  as  Rockmount 
probably  is,  for  he  seems  to  find  a  charm  in  the  very  walls 
which  inclose  his  jewel. 

For  my  part,  I  prefer  the  casket  to  the  gem.  Rockmount 
must  be  a  pleasant  house  to  live  in ;  I  thought  so  the  first 
night,  when,  by  Sir  WilHam's  earnest  desire,  I  took  upon 
myself  the  part  of"  father"  to  that  willful  lad,  and  paid  the 
prehminary  visit  to  the  lady's  father,  Mr.  Johnston. 

Johnson  it  is,  properly,  as  I  learned  from  that  impetuous 
young  daughter  of  his,  when,  meeting  her  on  the  moor,  the 
idea  suddenly  struck  me  to  gain  from  her  some  knowledge 
that  might  guide  my  conduct  in  the  very  anxious  position 
wherein  I  was  placed.  Johnson,  only  Johnson.  Poor  child ! 
had  she  known  the  load  she  lifted  ofi'me  by  those  few  im- 
petuous words,  which  accident  only  won ;  for  Treherne's 
matter  had  for  once  driven  out  of  my  mind  all  other  thoughts, 
or  doubts,  or  fears,  which  may  now  henceforward  be  com- 
pletely set  aside. 

I  must,  of  course,  take  no  notice  of  her  frank  communi- 
cation, but  continue  to  call  them  "Johnston."  Famihes 
which  "  come  from  nothing  and  nobody" — the  foolish  las- 
sie !  as  if  we  did  not  all  come  alike  from  Father  Adam — 
are  very  tenacious  on  these  points  ;  which  may  have  their 
value — to  families.  Unto  isolated  individuals  they  seem  ri- 
diculous. To  me,  for  instance,  of  what  benefit  is  it  to  bear 
an  ancient  name,  bequeathed  by  ancestors  whom  I  owe 
nothing  besides,  and  which  I  shall  leave  to  no  descendants  ? 
I,  who  have  no  abiding  place  on  the  whole  earth,  and  to 
whom,  as  I  read  in  a  review  extract  yesterday,  "  My  home 
is  any  room  where  I  can  draw  a  bolt  across  the  door." 

Speaking  of  home,  I  revert  to  my  first  glimpse  of  the  in- 
terior of  Rockmount,  that  rainy  night,  when  weary  with 
my  day  and  night  journey,  and  struck  more  than  ever  with 
the  empty  dreariness  of  Treherne  Court,  and  the  restless- 


A   LLFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  73 

ness  of  its  poor  gouty  old  master,  able  to  enjoy  so  little  out 
of  all  Ms  splendors,  I  suddenly  entered  this  snug  little 
"  home,"  The  fire,  the  tea-table,  the  neatly-dressed  daugh- 
ters, looking  quite  different  from  decked-out  beauties,  or 
hospital  slatterns,  which  are  the  two  phases  in  which  I  most 
-often  see  the  sex.  Certainly,  to  one  who  has  been  much 
abroad,  there  is  a  great  charm  in  the  sweet  looks  of  a  thor- 
ough Enghsh  woman  by  her  own  fireside.  • 

This  picture  fixed  itself  m  my  mind,  distinct  as  a  photo- 
graph ;  for  truly  it  was  printed  in  Ught,  The  warm,  bright 
parlor,  with  a  dehcate-tinted  paper,  a  flowered  carpet,  and 
amber  curtains,  which  I  noticed  because  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters was  in  the  act  of  drawing  them  to  screen  the  draught 
from  her  father's  arm-chair.  The  old  man — he  must  be 
seventy,  nearly — standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  met  rne  cold- 
ly enough,  which  was  not  surprising,  ]3rior  to  our  conver- 
sation.    The  three  ladies  I  have  before-  named. 

Of  these,  the  future  Mrs.  Treherne  is  by  far  the  hand- 
somest ;  but  I  still  prefer  the  coimtenance  of  my  earhest 
acquaintance,  Miss  Theodora — a  pretty  name.  IsT either  she 
nor  her  sisters  gave  me  more  than  a  formal  bow ;  shaking 
hands  is  evidently  not  their  custom  with  strangers.  I  should 
have  thought  of  that  two  days  before. 

Mr.  Johnston  took  me  into  his  study.  It  is  an  antique 
room,  with  dogs  for  the  fire-place,  and  a  settle  on  either 
side  the  hearth ;  many  books  or  papers  about,  and  a  large, 
neatly-arranged  hbrary  on  shelves, 

I  noticed  these  things  because,  as  I  say,  my  long  absence 
from  England  caused  them  to  attract  me  more  than  they 
might  have  done  a  person  accustomed  to  English  domestic 
life.  That  old  man,  ghding  peacefully  down  hill  in  the  arms 
of  his  three  daughters,  was  a  sight  pleasant  enough.  There 
must  be  many  compensations  m  old  age — ^in  such  an  old  age 
as  this. 

Mr.  Johnston — I  am  learning  to  write  the  name  without 
hesitation — is  not  a  man  of  many  words.  His  character 
appears  to  me  of  that  type  which  I  have  generally  found 
associated  with  those  specially  delicate  and  regular  fea- 
tures ;  shrinking  from  any  thing  painful  or  distasteful,  j)ut- 
ting  it  aside,  forgetting  it,  if  possible,  but  any  how  trying 
to  get  rid  of  it.  Thus,  when  I  had  dehvered  Sir  William 
Treherne' s  most  cordial  and  gentlemanly  letter,  and  ex- 
plained his  thorough  consent  to  the  marriage,  the  lady's  fa- 
ther took  it  much  more  indifferently  than  I  had  expected. 

D 


14:       '  A   LIFE    FOR    A  LIFE. 

He  said,  "  that  he  had  never  mterfered  with  his  daugh- 
ters' choice  in  such  matters,  nor  should  he  now ;  he  had  no 
objection  to  see  them -settled ;  they  would  have  no  protector 
when  he  was  gone."     And  here  he  paused. 

I  answered,  it  was  a  very  natural  j)arental  desire,  and  I 
trusted  Captain  Treherne  would  prove  a  good  brother  to 
the  Misses  Johnston,  as  well  as  a  good  son  to  himself. 

"  Yes^-yes,"  he  said,  hastily,  and  then  asked  me  a  few 
questions  as  to  Treherne's  prospects,  temper,  and  moral 
character,  which  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  answer  as  I  did. 
"  Harum-scarum,"  as  I  call  him,  few  young  men  of  fortune 
can  boast  a  more  stainless  hfe,  and  so  I  told  Mr.  Johnston. 
He  seemed  satisfied,  and  ended  our  interview  by  saying, 
"  that  he  should  be  happy  to  see  the  young  gentleman  to- 
morrow." 

So  I  departed,  declining  his  invitation  to  re-enter  the 
drawing-room,  for  it  seemed  that,  at  the  present  crisis  in 
their  family  history,  there  was  an  indelicacy  in  any  stran- 
gers breaking  in  upon  that  happy  circle.  Otherwise,  I 
would  have  liked  well  another  peep  at  the  pretty  home- 
picture,  which  in  walking  to  the  camp  through  a  pelting 
rain,  flitted  before  my  eyes  again  and  again. 

Treherne  was  waiting  in  my  hut.  He  looked  up,  fevered 
with  anxiety. 

"  Where  the  devil  have  you  been  gone  to.  Doctor  ?  !N"o- 
body  has  known  any  thing  about  you  for  the  last  two  days. 
And  I  wanted  you  to  write  to  the  governor,  and — •" 

"  I  have  seen  the '  governor,'  as  you  wiU  persist  in  calling 
the  best  of  fathers—" 

"Seen  him!"   - 

"  And  the  Rockmount  father  too.  Go  in  and  win,  my 
boy ;  the  coast's  all  clear.  Mind  you  ask  me  to  the  wed- 
ding." 

Truly  there  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  having  had  a  hand 
in  making  young  folks  happy.  The  sight  does  not  happen 
often  enough  to  aflbrd  my  smiling  even  at  the  demonstra- 
tions of  that  poor  lad  on  this  memorable  evening. 

Since  then,  I  have  left  him  to  his  own  devices,  and  fol- 
lowed mine,  which  have  little  to  do  with  happy  people. 
Once  or  twice,  I  have  had  business  with  Mr.  Granton,  who 
does  not  seem  to  sufier  acutely  at  Miss  Lisabel's  marriage. 
He  need  not  cause  a  care,  even  to  that  tender-hearted  dam- 
sel, who  besought  me  so  pitifully  to  take  him  in  hand.  And 
so,  I  trust  the  whole  Rockmount  family  are  happy,  and  ful- 


A   LIFE   POR   A   LIFE.  Y5 

filling  their  destiny — in  the  which,  little  as  I  thought  it,  when 
I  stood  watching  the  sohtary  girl  in  the  sofa  corner,  Max 
Urquhart  has  been  made  more  an  instrument  than  he  ever 
dreamed  of,  or  than  they  are  hkely  ever  to  be  aware. 

The  matter  was  begmning  to  fade  out  of  my  memory,  as 
one  of  the  many  episodes  which  are  always  occurring  to 
create  passing  interests  in  a  doctor's  life,  when  I  received 
an  invitation  to  dine  at  Rockmount. 

I  dislike  accepting  casual  invitations.  Primarily,  on  prin- 
ciple— the  bread-and-salt  doctriue  of  the  East,  which  con- 
siders hospitality  neither  as  a  business  nor  an  amusement, 
but  as  a  sacred  rite,  entaihng  permanent  responsibility  to 
both  host  and  guest.  When  I  sit  by  a  man's  fireside,  or 
(Treherne  loquitur)  "  put  my  feet  under  his  mahogany,"  I 
feel  bound  not  merely  to  give  him  back  the  same  quantity 
and  quahty  of  meat  and  drink,  but  to  regard  myself  as 
henceforth  his  friend  and  guest,  under  obligations  closer 
and  more  bindmg  than  one  would  submit  to  from  the  world 
in  general.  It  is,  therefore,  incumbent  on  me  to  be  very 
choice  in  those  with  w^hom  I  put  myself  under  such  bonds 
and  obhgations. 

My  secondary  reasons  are  so  purely  personal,  that  they 
will  not  bear  enlarging  upon.  Most  people  of  solitary  life, 
and  conscious  of  many  pecuharities,  take  small  pleasure  m 
general  society ;  otherwise  to  go  out  into  the  world,  to  rub 
up  one's  intellect,  enlarge  one's  social  sjnnpathies,  enjoy  the 
mingling  of  wit,  learning,  beauty,  and  even  folly,  would  be 
a  pleasant  thing— like  sitting  to  watch  a  pyrotechnic  dis- 
play, knowing  all  the  while  that  when  it  was  ended  one 
could  come  back  to  see  one's  heart  in  the  perennial  warmth 
of  one's  own  fireside.  K  not — ^better  stay  away :  for  one 
is  inclined  to  turn  cynical,  and  perceive  nothing  but  the 
smell  of  the  gunpowder,  the  wrecks  of  the  Catherine-wheels, 
and  the  empty  shells  of  the  Roman  candles. 

The  Rockmount  invitation  was  rather  friendly  than  form- 
al, and  it  came  from  an  old  man.  The  feeble  handwriting, 
the  all  but  illegible  sigpatm-e,  weighed  with  me,  m  spite  of 
myself.  I  had  no  definite  reason  to  refuse  this  politeness, 
which  is  not  hkely  to  extend  beyond  an  occasional  dinner- 
party, of  the  sort  given  hereabouts  periodically,  to  middle- 
aged  respectable  neighbors — in  which  category  may  be 
supposed  to  come  Max  Urquhart,  M.D.  I  accepted  the 
courtesy  and  invitation. 

Yet  let  me  confess  to  thee,  compassionate  unknown,  the 


76  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

ridiculous  hesitation  with  which  I  walked  up  to  this  friend- 
ly door,  from  which  I  should  certainly  have  walked  away 
again,  but  for  my  dislike  to  break  any  engagement,  how- 
ever trivial,  or  even  a  promise  made  only  to  myself  Let 
me  own  the  morbid  dread  with  which  I  contemplated  four 
mortal  hours  to  be  spent  in  the  society  of  a  dozen  friendly 
people,  made  doubly  sociable  by  the  influence  of  a  good 
dinner  and  the  best  of  wines. 

But  the  alarm  was  needless,  as  a  httle  common,  sense, 
had  I  exercised  it,  would  soon  have  proved. 

In  the  drawing-room,  ht  with  the  warm  duskiness  of  fire- 
hght,  sat  the  three  ladies.  The  eldest  received  me  politely : 
the  youngest  apologetically. 

"  We  are  only  ourselves,  you  see ;  we  understand  you 
dislike  dinner-parties,  so  we  invited  nobody." 

"We  never  do  give  dinner-parties  more  than  once  or 
twice  a  year." 

It  was  the  second  daughter  who  made  that  last  remark. 
I  thought  whether  it  was  for  my  sake  or  her  own,  that  one 
young  lady  had  taken  the  trouble  to  give  me  a  false  impres- 
sion, and  the  other  to  remove  it.  And  how  very  indiffer- 
ent I  was  to  both  attempts  !  Surely,  women  hold  trifles  of 
more  moment  than  we  men  can  afford  to  do. 

Curious  enough  to  me  was  the  thoroughly  feminine  at- 
mosphere of  the  damty  little  drawing-room,  set  out,  not 
with  costly  splendors,  like  Treherne  Court,  but  pretty  home- 
made ornaments,  and,  above   all,  with  plenty  of  flowers. 

y  olfactories  are  acute ;  certain  rooms  always  possess  to 

e  certain  associated  scents  through  which,  at  whatever 
istance  of  time  I  revisit  them,  the  pristine  impression  sur- 
vives ;  sometimes  pleasant,  sometimes  horribly  iDainful. 
That  pretty  parlor  will,  I  fancy,  always  carry  to  me  the 
scent  of  orange-flowers.  It  came  through  the  door  of  a  lit- 
tle green-house,  from  a  tree  there,  the  finest  specimen  I  had 
yet  seen  in  England,  and  I  rose  to  examine  it.  There  fol- 
lowed me  the  second  daughter.  Miss  Theodora. 

In  the  minute  picture  which  I  ha"^  been  making  of  my 
evening  at  Rockmount,  I^ought  not  to  omit  this  young  girl, 
or  young  woman,  for  she  apj)ears  both  by  turns ;  indeed, 
she  has  the  most  variable  exterior  of  any  person  I  ever  met. 
I  recall  her  successively ;  the  first  time  of  meeting,  quite 
childlike  in  her  looks  and  ways ;  the  second,  sedate  and 
womanly,  save  in  her  little  obstinacy  about  the  blue-bells ; 
the  third,  dignified,  indignant,  pertinaciously  reserved ;  but 


A   LIFE   POE   A   LIFE.  77 

this  night  I  saw  her  in  an  entirely  new  character,  neither 
childish  nor  woman-like,  but  altogether  gentle  and  girlish 
— a  thorough  English  girl. 

Her  dress,  of  some  soft,  dark  color,  which  fell  in  folds, 
and  did  not  rustle  or  spread ;  her  hair,  which  was  twisted 
at  the  back,  without  any  bows  or  laces,  such  as  I  see  ladies 
wear,  and  brought  down,  smooth  and  soft,  over  the  fore- 
head, formed  a  sufficient  contrast  to  her  sisters  to  make  me 
notice  her ;  besides,  it  was  a  style  more  according  to  my 
own  taste.  I  hate  to  see  a  woman  all  flounces  and  fiUigigs, 
or  with  her  hair  torn  up  by  the  roots  hke  a  Chinese  Man- 
darin. Hair  curved  over  the  brow  like  a  Saxon  arch,  un- 
der the  doorway  of  which  two  modest  intelligent  eyes  stand 
sentinel,  vouching  for  the  worth  of  what  is  within — grant 
these,  and  the  rest  of  the  features  may  be  any  thing  you 
choose,  if  not  absolutely  ugly.  The  only  peculiarity  about 
these  was  a  squareness  of  chin,  and  closeness  of  mouth,  in- 
dicating more  strength  than  sweetness  of  disposition,  until 
the  young  lady  smiled. 

Writing  this,  I  am  smiling  myself  to  reflect  how  little 
people  would  give  me  credit  for  so  much  observation ;  but 
a  liking  to  study  character  is,  perhaps,  of  all  others,  the 
hobby  most  useful  to  a  medical  man. 

I  have  left  my  object  of  remark  all  this  while  standing 
by  her  orange-tree,  and  contemplating  a  large  caterpillar 
slowly  crawling  over  one  of  its  leaves.  I  recommended  her 
to  get  Treherne  to  smoke  in  her  conservatory,  which  would 
remove  the  insects  from  her  flowers. 

"  They  are  not  mine,  I  rarely  pay  them  the  least  atten- 
tion." 

I  thought  she  was  fond  of  flowers. 

"Yes,  but  wild  flowers,  not  tame,  like  these  of  Penelope's. 
I  only  patronize  those  she  throws  away  as  being  not '  good.' 
Can  you  imagine  mother  ligature  making  a  '  bad'  flower  ?" 

I  said,  I  concluded  Miss  Johnston  was  a  scientific  horti. 
culturist. 

"  Indeed  she  is.  I  never  knew  a  girl  so  learned  about 
flowers,  well-educated,  genteel,  green-house  flowers,  as  our 
Penelope." 

"  Our"  Penelope.  There  must  be  a  pleasure  in  these 
family  possessive  pronouns. 

I  had  the  honor  of  taking  in  to  dinner  this  lady,  who  is 
very  sprightly,  and  nothing  at  all  Odyssean  about  her. 
During  a  lack  of  conversation,  for  Treherne,  of  course,  de- 


^8  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

voted  himself  to  liis  ladye-love,  and  Mr.  Johnston  is  the 
most  silent  of  hosts,  I  ventm-ed  to  remark  that  this  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  met  a  lady  with  that  old  Greek  name. 

*' Penelope!"  cried  Treherne.  "'Pon  my  life  I  forget 
who  was  Penelope.  Do  tell  us,  Dora.  That  young  lady 
knows  eA^ery  thing.  Doctor ;  a  regular  blue-stocking ;  at 
first  she  quite  frightened  me,  I  declare." 

Captain  Treherne  seems  to  be  making  himself  uncom- 
monly famihar  with  his  future  sisters-in-law.  This  one  did 
not  exactly  relish  it,  to  judge  by  her  look.  She  has  a  will 
of  her  own,  and  a  temper,  too,  "  that  young  lady."  It  is 
as  well  Treherne  did  not  happen  to  set  his  affections  upon 
her. 

Poor  youth !  he  never  knows  when  to  stop. 

"  Ha  !  I  have  it  now.  Miss  Dora.  Penelope  was  in  the 
Odyssey — that  book  of  engravings  you  were  showing  my 
cousin  Charteris  and  me  that  Friday  night.  And  how  I 
laughed  at  what  Charteris  said — that  he  thought  the  good 
lady  was  very  much  over-rated,  and  Ulysses  in  the  right  of 
it  to  ride  away  again,  when,  coming  back  after  ten  years, 
he  found  her  a  prudish,  psalm-singing,  sjDinning  old  woman. 
Halloo !  have- 1  put  my  foot  into  it,  Lisabel  ?" 

It  seemed  so,  by  the  constrained  silence  of  the  whole 
party.  Miss  Johnston  turned  scarlet  and  then  white,  but 
immediately  said  to  me,  laughingly : 

"  Mr.  Charteris  is  an  excellent  classic ;  he  was  papa's  pu- 
pil for  some  years.     Have  you  ever  met  him  ?" 

I  had  not,  but  I  had  often  heard  of  him  in  certain  circles 
of  our  camp  society,  as  well  as  from  Sir  William  Treherne. 
And  I  now  suddenly  recollected  that,  in  talking  over  his 
son's  marriage,  the  latter  had  expressed  some  surprise  at 
the  news  Treherne  had  given  that  this  gay  bachelor  about 
town,  whose  society  he  had  always  been  chary  of  cultivat- 
ing for  fear  of  harm  to  "  the  boy,"  had  been  engaged  for 
some  time  to  a  member  of  the  Johnston  family.  This  was, 
of  course,  Miss  Johnston — Penelope. 

I  would  have  let  the  subject  dro]3,  but  Miss  Lisabel  re- 
vived it. 

"  So  you  have  heard  a  deal  about  Francis  ?  N"o  wonder ! 
— is  he  not  a  charming  person  ? — and  very  much  thought 
of  in  London  society  ?    Do  tell  us  all  you  heard  about  him." 

Treherne  gave  me  a  look. 

"  Oh !  you'll  never  get  any  thing  out  of  the  Doctor.  He 
knows  every  body,  and  every  body  tells  him  every  thing, 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  79 

but  there  it  ends.  He  is  a  perfect  tomb — a  sarcophagus 
of  silence,  as  a  fellow  once  called  him." 

MissLisabel  held  up  her  hands,  and  .vowed  she  was  real- 
ly afraid  of  me.  IVliss  Johnston  said,  sharply,  "  She  hked 
candid  people ;  a  sarcophagus  of  silence  implied  a  '  body' 
inside."  At  which  all  laughed,  except  the  second  sister, 
who  said,  with  some  warmth,  "  She  thought  there  were  few 
quahties  more  rare  and  valuable  than  the  j)Ower  of  keeping 
a  secret." 

"  Of  course  Dora  thinks  so.  Doctor,  my  sister  there,  is 
the  most  secretive  little  mouse  that  ever  was  born.  Red- 
hot  pincers  could  not  force  from  her  what  she  did  not  choose 
to  tell,  about  herself  or  other  people." 

I  well  beheve  that.  One  sometimes  finds  that  combina- 
tion of  natural  frankness  and  exceeding  reticence,  when  ret- 
icence is  necessary. 

The  "  mouse"  had  justified  her  name  by  being  silent  near- 
ly all  dinner-time,  though  it  was  not  the  silence  of  either 
suUenness  or  abstraction.  But  when  she  was  afterward  ac- 
cused of  delighting  in  a  secret,  "  running  away  with  it,  and 
hiding  it  in  her  hole,  hke  a  bit  of  cheese,"  she  looked  up, 
and  said,  emphatically, 

"  That  is  a  mistake,  Lisabel." 

"  A  fib,  you  mean.  Augustus,  do  you  know,  my  sisters 
call  me  a  dreadful  story-teller,"  smihng  at  him,  as  if  she 
thought  it  the  best  joke  in  the  world. 

"  I  said  a  mistake,  and  meant  nothing  more." 

"  Do  teU  us,  child,  what  you  really  meant,  if  it  is  possible 
to  get  it  out  of  you,"  observed  the  eldest  sister ;  and  the 
poor  "  mouse,"  thus  driven  into  a  corner,  looked  round  the 
table  with  those  bnght  eyes  of  hers. 

"  Lisabel  mistakes  ;  I  do  not  delight  in  secrets.  I  think 
people  ought  not  to  have  any,  but  to  be  of  one  mind  in  a 
house."  (She  studies  her  Bible,  then,  for  the  phrase  came 
out  as  naturally  as  one  quotes  habitual  phrases,  "Scarcely 
conscious  whence  one  has  learned  them.)  "  Those  who  real- 
ly care  for  one  another  are  much  happier  when  they  tell 
one  another  every  thing ;  there  is  nothing  so  dangerous  as 
a  secret.  Better  never  have  one,  but,  having  it,  if  one  ought 
to  keep  it  at  all,  one  ought  to  keep  it  to  the  death." 

She  looked — quite  accidentally,  I  do  believe — but  still 
she  looked  at  me.  Why  is  it,  that  this  girl  should  be  the 
instrument  of  gi\dng  me  continual  stabs  of  pain  ?  Yet  there 
i?  a  charm  in  them.     They  take  away  a  little  of  the  feehng 


80  A   LIFE  FOE   A  LIFE. 

of  isolation — the  contrast  between  the  inside  and  outside 
of  the  sarcophagus.  Many  true  words  are  spoken  in  jest. 
They  dart,  hke  a  tl^read  of  hght,  even  to  "  the  body"  with- 
in. Corruption  has  its  laws.  I  marvel  in  what  length  of 
time  might  a  sunbeam,  penetrating  there^  find  nothing  worse 
than  harmless  dust  ? 

But  I  will  pass  into  ordinary  life  again.  Common  sense 
teaches  a  man  in  my  circumstances  that  this  is  the  best 
thing  for  him.  What  business  has  he  to  set  himself  up  as 
a  Simon  Styhtes  on  a  solitary  column  of  woe  ?  as  if  misery 
constituted  saintship.  There  is  no  arrogance  like  the  hy- 
pocrisy of  humility. 

When  Treherne  had  joined  the  ladies,  Mr.  Johnston  and 
myself  started  some  very  interesting  conversation,  apropos 
of  Mrs.  Grant  on  and  her  doings  m  the  parish,  when  I  found 
that  he  has  the  feeling,  very  rare  among  country  gentlemen 
of  his  age  and  generation — an  exceeding  aversion  for  strong 
drinks.  He  discountenances  Father  Mathew  and  the  pledge 
as  popish,  a  crotchet  not  surprising  in  an  old  Tory,  whose 
opinions,  never  wide,  all  run  in  one  groove,  as  it  were,  but 
he  advocates  temperance,  even  to  teetotalism, 

I  tried  to  draw  the  line  of  moderation,  and  argued  that> 
because  some  meii,  determined  on  making  beasts  of  them- 
selves, required  to  be  treated  like  beasts,  by  compulsion 
only,  that  was  no  reason  why  the  remainder  should  not  have 
free-will,  man's  glorious  privilege,  to  prove  their  manhood 
by  the  choice  of  good  or  evil. 

"  Like  Adam — ^and  Adam  fell." 

"  Like  a  greater  than  Adam ;  trusting  in  Whom  we  need 
never  fall." 

The  old  man  did  not  reply,  but  he  looked  much  excited. 
The  subject  seemed  to  rouse  in  him  something  beyond  the 
mere  disgust  of  an  educated  gentleman  at  what  oflfended 
his  refined  tastes.  Had  not  certain  other  reasons  made  that 
solution  improbable,  I  could  have  imagined  it  the  shudder 
of  one  too  familiar  with  the  vice  he  now  abhorred ;  that  he 
spoke  about  drunkenness  with  the  terrified  fierceness  of  one 
who  had  himself  been  a  drunkard. 

As  we  sat  talking  across  the  table,  philosophically,  ab- 
stractedly, yet  with  a  perceptible  undertone  of  reserve — I 
heard  it  m  his  voice ;  I  felt  it  in  my  own — or  listening  si- 
lently to  the  equinoctial  gale,  which  rattled  the  window, 
made  the  candles  flicker,  almost  caused  the  wine  to  shake 
in  the  untouched  decanters — as  I  have  heard  table-rapping 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  81 

tales,  of  wine  beginning  to  shake  when  there  was  "  a  spirit 
present" — ^the  thought  struck  me  more  than  once — if  either 
of  us  two  men  could  lift  the  curtain  from  one  another's  past, 
what  would  be  found  there  ? 

He  proceeded  to  close  our  conversation  by  saying, 

"  You  will  understand  now.  Doctor  Urquhart,  and  I  wish 
to  name  it  as  a  sort  of  apology  for  my  former  close  question- 
ing, my  extreme  horror  of  drunkenness  and  my  satisfaction 
at  finding  that  Mr.  Treherne  has  no  propensity  in  this  di- 
rection." 

I  answered, "  Certainly  not ;  that,  with  all  the  temptations 
of  a  mess-table,  to  take  much  wine  was,  with  him,  a  thing 
exceedingly  rare." 

"  Rare !     I  thought  you  said  he  never  drank  at  all  ?" 

"  I  told  you  he  was  no  drunkard,  nor  at  all  m  the  habit 
of  drinking." 

"  Habits  grow,  we  know  not  how,"  cried  the  old  man, 
irritably.     "  Does  he  take  it  every  day  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.     Most  military  men  do." 

Mr.  Johnston  turned  sharp  upon  me. 

"  I  must  have  no  modifications.  Doctor  Urquhart.  Can 
you  declare  positively  that  you  never  saw  Captain  Treherne 
the  worse  for  hquor  ?" 

To  answer  this  question  directly  was  impossible,  I  tried 
to  remove  the  impression  I  had  unhappily  given,  and  which 
the  old  man  had  taken  up  so  unexpectedly  and  fiercely,  by 
enlarging  on  the  brave  manner  in  which  Treherne  had  with- 
stood many  a  lure  to  evil  ways. 

"  You  can  not  deceive  me,  sir.    I  must  have  the  truth." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  to  seek  it  from  Treherne 
himself,  when,  remembering  the  irritation  of  the  old  man, 
and  the  hot-headed  imprudence  of  the  young  one,  I  thought 
it  would  be  safer  to  bear  the  brunt  myself  I  informed  Mr. 
Johnston  of  the  two  only  instances  when  I  had  seen  Tre- 
herne not  himself.  Once  after  twenty-four  hours  in  the 
trenches,  when  unhmited  brandy  could  hardly  keep  life  in 
our  poor  fellows,  and  again  when  Miss  Lisabel  herself  must 
be  his  excuse. 

"  Lisabel  ?  Do  not  name  her,  sir  ;  I  would  rather  see  a 
daughter  of  mine  in  her  grave  than  the  wife  of  a  drunkard." 

"  Which,  allow  me  to  assert.  Captain  Treherne  is  not, 
and  is  never  hkely  to  be." 

Mr.  Johnston  shook  his  head  incredulously.  I  became 
more  and  more  convinced  about  the  justice  of  my  conject- 

D2 


82  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

ure  about  liis  past  life,  which  dehcacy  forbade  me  to  in- 
quire into,  or  to  use  as  any  argument  against  his  harshness 
now.     I  began  to  feel  seriously  uneasy. 

"  Mr.  Johnston,"  I  said,  "  would  you  for  this  accidental 
error — " 

I  paused,  seeing  at  the  door  a  young  lady's  face,  Miss 
Theodora's. 

"  Papa,  tea  is  waiting." 

"  Let  it  wait  then ;  shut  the  door.    Well,  sir  ?" 

I  repeated,  would  he,  for  an  accidental  error,  condemn 
the  young  man  entirely  ? 

"  He  has  condemned  himself;  he  has  taken  the  first  step, 
and  his  downward  course  will  be  swift  and  sudden.  There 
is  no  stoppmg  it,  sir,"  and  he  struck  his  hand  on  the  table. 
"  If  I  had  a  son,  and  he  liked  wine,  as  a  child  does,  perhaps 
— a  pretty  little  boy,  sitting  at  table  and  drinking  healths 
at  birthdays ;  or  a  schoolboy,  proud  to  do  what  he  sees  his 
father  doing — I  would  take  his  glass  from  him,  and  fill  it 
with  poison — deadly  poison — that  he  might  kill  himself  at 
once,  rather  than  grow  up  to  his  friends'  curse  and  his  own 
damnation — a  drmikardP 

I  urged,  after  a  minute's  pause,  that  Treherne  was  nei- 
ther a  child  nor  a  boy ;  that  he  had  passed  through  the 
early  perils  of  youth,  and  succumbed  to  none ;  that  there 
was  little  fear  he  would  ever  become  a  drunkard. 

"He  may." 

*'  Please  God  he  never  shall !  Even  if  he  had  yielded  to 
temptation ;  if,  even  in  your  sense  and  mine,  Mr.  Johnston, 
the  young  man  had  once  been  '  drunk,'  would  you  for  that 
brand  him  as  a  hopeless  drunkard?  I  think  not — I  trust 
not." 

And,  strongly  excited  myself,  I  pleaded  for  the  lad  as  if 
I  had  been  pleading  for  my  own  life,  but  in  vain. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  I  was  in  momentary  dread  of 
another  summons  to  the  drawing-room. 

In  cases  like  these  there  comes  a  time  when,  be  our  op- 
ponents younger  or  older,  inferior  or  superior  to  ourselves, 
we  feel  we  must  assert  what  we  believe  to  be  right,  "  tak- 
ing the  upper  hand,"  as  it  is  called — that  is,  using  the  power 
which  the  few  have  in  guiding  the  many.  Call  it  influence, 
decision,  will — one  who  possesses  it  rarely  gets  through 
half  a  lifetime  without  discovering  the  fact,  and  what  a 
weighty  and  solemn  gift  it  is. 

I  said  to  Mr.  Johnston,  very  respectfully,  yet  resolutely, 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  83 

that,  in  so  serious  a  matter,  of  which  I  myself  was  the  mi- 
happy  cause,  I  must  request  him,  as  a  personal  favor,  to 
postpone  his  decision  for  to-night. 

"  And,"  I  continued,  "  forgive  my  urging  that,  both  as  a 
father  and  a  clergyman,  you  are  bound  to  be  careful  how 
you  decide.  By  one  fatal  word  you  may  destroy  your 
daughter's  haj^piness  for  life." 

I  saw  him  start ;  I  struck  bolder. 

"  Also,  as  Captain  Treherne's  friend,  let  me  remind  you 
that  he  has  a  future  too.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a 
young  man's  future  when  he  is  thwarted  in  his  first  love. 
What  if  he  should  go  all  wrong,  and  you  had  to  answer  to 
Sir  William  Treherne  for  the  ruin  of  his  only  son  ?" 

I  was  not  prepared  for  the  effect  of  my  words. 

"  His  only  son — God  forgive  me !  is  he  his  only  son  ?" 

Mr.  Johnston  turned  from  me ;  his  hands  shook  violently ; 
his  whole  countenance  changed.  In  it  there  was  as  much 
remorse  and  anguish  as  if  he,  in  his  youth,  had  been  some 
old  man's  only  and  perhaps  erring  son. 

I  could  pity  him  if  he  were  one  of  those  who  suffer  to 
their  life's  end  for  the  evil  deeds  of  their  youth.  I  abstain- 
ed from  any  farther  remarks,  and  he  made  none.  At  last, 
as  he  expressed  some  wish  to  be  left  alone,  I  rose. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  I  will  thank 
you  not  to  name  this  conversation  to  my  family.  For  the 
subject  of  it,  we'll  pass  it  over  this  once." 

I  thanked  him,  and  earnestly  begged  forgiveness  for  any 
warmth  I  had  shown  in  the  argument. 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes  !    Did  I  not  say  we  would  pass  it  over  ?" 

He  sank  wearily  back  in  his  arm-chair,  but  I  felt  the  point 
was  gained. 

In  course  of  the  evening,  when  Treherne  and  Miss  Lisa- 
bel,  in  happy  ignorance  of  all  the  peril  their  bliss  had  gone 
through,  were  making  believe  to  play  chess  in  the  corner, 
and  Miss  Johnston  was  reading  the  newspaper  to  her  father, 
I  -ehpped  away  to  the  green-house,  where  I  stood  examin- 
ing some  orchids,  and  thinking  how  curious  it  was  that  I, 
a  ]oerfect  stranger,  should  be  so  mixed  up  with  the  private 
affahs  of  this  family. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart." 

Soft  as  the  whisper  was,  it  made  me  start.  I  ajDologized 
for  not  having  seen  Miss  Theodora  enter,  and  began  admir- 
ing the  orchidaceous  plants. 

"  Yes,  very  pretty.  But  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  what  were 
yon  nnd  papa  talkinp;  nboiit  ?" 


84  A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE. 

"  Your  father  wished  me  not  to  mention  it." 

"  But  I  heard  part  of  it,  I  could  not  help  hearing,  and  I 
guessed  the  rest.  Tell  me  only  one  thing.  Is  Mr.  Treherne 
still  to  marry  our  Lisa  ?" 

"  I  believe  so.  There  was  a  difficulty,  but  Mr.  Johnston 
said  he  would  '  pass  it  over.'  " 

"  Poor  papa,"  was  all  she  replied.     "  Poor  papa." 

I  expressed  my  exceeding  regret  at  what  had  happened. 

"  No,  never  mind,  you  could  not  help  it ;  I  understand 
exactly  how  it  was.  But  the  storm  will  blow  over ;  papa 
is  rather  peculiar.     Don't  tell  Mr.  Treherne." 

She  stood  meditative  a  good  while,  and  then  said, 

"  I  think  you  are  right  about  Captain  Treherne ;  I  begm 
to  like  him  myself  a  little.  That  is —  No,  I  will  not  make 
pretenses.     I  did  not  like  him  at  all  until  lately." 

I  told  her  I  knew  that. 

"How?    Did  I  show  it?    Do  I  show  w^hat  I  feel ?" 

"  Tolerably,"  said  I,  smiling.  "  But  you  do  like  him 
now?" 

"Yes." 

Another  pause  of  consideration  and  then  a  second  decisive 
"yes." 

"  I  hke  him,"  she  went  on,  "  because  he  is  good-natured 
and  sincere.  Besides,  he  suits  Lisabel,  and  people  are  so 
different,  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  expect  to  choose 
one's  sister's  husband  after  the  pattern  of  one's  own.  The 
two  would  probably  not  agree  in  any  single  particular." 

"Indeed,"  said  I,  amused  at  her  frankness.  "For  in- 
stance ?" 

"  Well,  for  instance,  Lisa  likes  talkmg,  and  I  silence,  or 
being  talked  to,  and  even  that  m  moderation.     Hark!" 

We  hstened  a  minute  to  Treherne's  hearty  laugh  and  in- 
cessant chitter-chatter. 

"  Now,  my  sister  enjoys  that,  she  says  it  amuses  her ;  I 
am  sure  it  would  drive  me  crazy  in  a  week." 

I  could  sympathize  a  little  in  this  sentiment.  • 

"  But,"  with  sudden  seriousness,  "  I  beg  you  to  under- 
stand. Doctor  Urquhart,  that  I  am  not  speaking  against 
Captain  Treherne.  As  I  told  you,  I  hke  him ;  I  am  quite 
satisfied  with  him,  as  a  brother-in-law.  Only  he  is  not  ex- 
actly the  sort  of  person  one  would  choose  to  spend  a  week 
with  in  the  Eddystone  Lighthouse." 

I  asked  if  that  was  her  test  for  all  her  friends  ?  since  few 
could  stand  it. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  85 

She  laughed. 

"  Possibly  not.  When  one  comes  to  reflect  there  are 
very  few  whose  company  one  can  tolerate  so  well  as  one's 
own."  * 

"  Which  is  itself  not  always  agreeable." 

"  Ko,  but  the  less  evil  of  the  two.  I  don't  believe  there 
is  a  creature  living  whose  society  I  could  endure,  without 
intermission,  for  a  month,  a  week,  or  even  two  days.  'No. 
Emphatically  no." 

She  must  then,  though  a  member  of  a  family,  hve  a  good 
deal  alone — a  fact  I  had  already  begun  to  suspect. 

"  Therefore,  as  I  try  to  make  Lisa  feel — being  the  elder, 
I  have  a  right  to  preach,  you  know — what  an  awful  thing 
marriage  must  be,  even  viewed  as  mere  companionship. 
Putting  aside  love,  honor,  obedience,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  to  undertake  the  burden  of  any  one  person's  constant 
presence  and  conversation  for  the  term  of  one's  natural  life ! 
the  idea  is  frightful !" 

"  Very,  if  you  do  put  aside  love,  honor, '  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.' " 

She  looked  up,  as  if  she  thought  I  was  laughing  at  her. 

"  Am  I  talking  very  foohshly  ?  I  am  afraid  I  do  some- 
times." 

"  N"ot  at  all,"  I  said,  "  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  her  talk." 
Which  unlucky  remark  of  mine  had  the  effect  of  wholly 
silencing  her. 

But,  silent,  it  was  something  to  watch  her  moving  about 
the  drawing-room,  or  sitting  still  over  her  work.  I  like  to 
see  a  woman  sewing ;  it  gives  her  an  air  of  peaceful  home- 
likeness,  the  nearest  approach  to  which,  in  us  men,  who  are 
either  always  sullenly  busy  or  lazily  idle,  is  the  imgainly 
lounge  with  our  feet  on  the  fender.  Mr.  Johnston  must  be 
happy  in  his  daughters,  particularly  in  this  one.  He  can 
scarcely  have  regretted  that  he  has  had  no  sons. 

It  seems  natural,  seeing  how  much  too  well  acquainted 
we  are  with  our  sex,  its  weaknesses  and  wickednesses,  that 
most  men  should  long  for,  and  make  much  of  daughters. 
Certainly,  to  have  in  one's  old  age  a  bright  girlish  face  to 
look  at,  a  lively  original  girlish  tongue  to  freshen  one's 
mind  with  new  ideas,  must  be  a  pleasant  thing.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  sorrows  of  his  past  life,  Mr.  Johnston  is 
a  fortunate  man  now. 

With  regard  to  Treherne,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  per- 
ceiving that,  as  Miss  Theodora  had  prophesied,  the  old 


86  A   LIFE   rOK   A   LIFE. 

man's  anger  had  blown  over.  His  manner  indicated  not 
merely  forgiveness,  but  a  degree  of  kindly  interest  in  that 
light-hearted  youth,  who  was  brimming  'over  with  fun  and 
contentment. 

I  had  an  opportunity  of  satisfying  myself  on  this  point, 
in  another  quarter,  while  waiting  in  the  hall  for  Treherne's 
protracted  adieu  in  the  dining-room ;  when  Miss  Theodora, 
passing  me,  stopped  to  interchange  a  word  with  me. 

"  Shall  you  tell  your  friend  what  occurred  to-night  ? — 
with  j)apa,  I  mean." 

I  rephed,  I  was  not  sure — ^but  perhaps  I  should.  It  might 
act  as  a  warning. 

"  Do  you  think  he  needs  a  warning  ?" 

"  I  do  not.  I  believe  Treherne  is  as  likely  to  turn  out  a 
good  man,  especially  with  a  good  wife  to  help  him,  as  any 
young  fellow  of  my  acquaintance ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  that 
you,  as  well  as  your  father,  will  think  no  worse  of  him  for 
any  thing  that  is  past.  An  old  man  has  had  time  to  forget, 
and  a  girl  is  never  likely  to  understand,  the  exceeding  tempt- 
ations which  every  young  man  has  to  fight  through,  more 
especially  a  young  man  of  fortune,  and  in  the  army." 

"  Ah !  yes,"  she  sighed,  "  that  is  too  true.  Papa  must 
have  felt  it.  Papa  wished  this  to  be  kept  secret  between 
himself  and  you?" 

"  I  understood  him  so." 

"  Then  keep  it.  Do  not  tell  Mr.  Treherne.  And  have 
no  fear  that  I  shall  be  too  hard  upon  him.  It  would  be  sad, 
indeed,  for  all  of  us,  who  do  wrong  every  day,  if  every  error 
of  youth  were  to  be  regarded  as  unpardonable." 

God  bless  her  good  heart,  and  the  kindly  hand  she  held 
out  to  me ;  which  for  the  second  time  I  dared  to  take  in 
mine.     Ay,  even  in  tnhie. 


CHAPTER  Till. 

HEE   STOET. 

I  DO  not  feel  inclined  for  sleep,  and  there  is  a  large  round 
moon  looking  in  at  my  window.  My  foolish  old  moon,  what 
a  time  it  is  since  you  and  I  had  a  quiet  serious  look  at  one 
another.  What  curious  things  you  used  to  say  to  me,  and 
what  confidences  I  used  to  make  in  you,  at  this  very  win- 
dow, leaning  my  elbow  in  this  very  spot.     That  was  when 


A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  87 

I  was  a  child,  and  fond  of  Colin — "  Colin,  my  dear."  How 
ridiculous  it  seems  now,  and  what  a  laugh  it  would  raise 
against  me  if  any  body  had  known  it.  Yet  what  an  inno- 
cent, simple,  devoted  child-love  it  was !  I  hardly  think  any 
after-love,  supposing  I  should  ever  feel  one,  will  be,  in  its 
way,  more  tender  or  more  true. 

Moon  have  you  forgotten  me  ?  Am  I  becoming  a  mid- 
dle-aged person ;  and  is  a  new  and  younger  generation 
growing  up  to  have  confidences  with  you  as  I  used  to 
have?  Or  is  it  I  who  have  forsaken  you?  Most  hkely. 
You  have  done  me  a  deal  of  harm — and  good,  too — in  my 
time.  Yet  you  seem  friendly  and  mild  to-night.  I  will 
forgive  you,  my  poor  old  moon. 

It  has  been  a  pleasant  day.  My  head  aches  a  little,  with 
the  unusual  excitement — query,  of  pleasure  ?  Is  pleasant- 
ness so  very  rare,  then  ?  No  :  I  am  weary  with  the  exer- 
tion of  having  to  make  myself  agreeable ;  for  Penelope  is 
full  of  housekeeping  cares,  and  a  few  sad  thoughts,  too, 
may  be,  concerning  the  wedding ;  so  that  she  takes  httle 
trouble  to  entertain  visitors.  And  Lisabel  is  "in  love," 
you  know,  moon. 

You  would  not  think  it,  though,  except  from  the  hcense 
she  takes  to  be  lazy  when  Augustus  is  here,  and  up  to  the 
eyes  in  business  when  he  is  away.  I  never  thought  a 
wedding  was  such  a  "piece  of  work,"  as  the  old  women 
say ;  such  a  time  of  incessant  bustle,  worry,  and  confusion. 
I  only  saw  the  "love"  side  of  it,  Lisabel  avers,  and  laughs 
at  me  when  I  wonder  at  her  for  wearing  herself  out  from 
morning  till  night  in  consultation  over  her  trousseau,  and 
how  we  shall  possibly  manage  to  accommodate  the  eight- 
and-forty  particular  friends  who  must  be  asked  to  the 
breakfast. 

Happily,  they  are  only  the  bride's  friends.  Sir  WilUam 
and  Lady  Augusta  Treherne  can  not  come,  and  Augustus 
does  not  care  a  straw  for  asking  any  body.  He  says  he 
only  wants  his  Lisa.  His  Lisa  unfortunately  requires  a 
few  trifles  more  to  constitute  her  bridal  happiness ;  a 
wreath,  a  veil,  a  breakfast,  and  six  bridesmaids  in  Indian 
muslin.  Rather  cold,  for  autumn,  but  which  she  says  she 
Can  not  give  up  on  any  account,  since  a  wedding-day  comes 
but  once,  and  she  has  been  lookuig  forward  to  hers  ever 
since  she  was  born. 

A  wedding-day!  Probably  there  are  few  of  us  who 
have  not  speculated  on  it  a  httle,  as  the  day  which,  of  all 


88  A  LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

otliers,  is  the  most  decisive  in  a  woman's  life.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  confess  having  occasionally  thought  of  mine. 
A  foolish  dream  that  comes  and  goes  with  one's  teens ; 
imagined  paradise  of  utterly  impossible  joy,  to  be  shared 
with  some  paragon  of  equally  impossible  perfection — I 
could  sit  and  laugh  at  it  now,  if  the  laughter  were  not  bit- 
terer than  tears. 

There,  after  writing  this,  I  went  and  pulled  down  my 
hair,  and  tied  it  under  my  chin  to  prevent  cold — oh !  most 
prudent  five-and-twenty — ^leaned  my  elbow  on  the  window- 
sill,  in  the  old  attitude  of  fifteen,  starmg  up  at  the  moon 
and  out  across  the  fir-woods  for  a  long  time.  Returning, 
I  have  relit  my  candle,  and  taken  once  more  to  my  desk, 
and  I  say  again,  O  inquisitive  moon,  that  this  has  been  a 
pleasant  day. 

It  was  one  of  our  quiet  Rockmount  Sundays,  which 
Doctor  Urquhart  says  he  enjoys  so  much.  Poor  Lisabel's 
last  Sunday  but  one.  She  will  be  married  to-morrow  week. 
We  had  our  indispensable  lover  to  dinner,  and  Doctor 
Urquhart  also.  Papa  told  me  to  ask  him  as  we  were 
coming,  out  of  the  church.  In  spite  of  the  distance,  he 
often  attends  our  church  now,  at  which  papa  seems  grati- 
fied. 

I  dehvered  the  message,  which  was  not  received  with  as 
much  warmth  as  I  thought  it  ought  to  have  been,  consid- 
ering that  it  came  from  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  does 
not  often  pay  a  yomiger  man  than  himself  the  compliment 
of  liking  his  society.  I  was  turning  away,  saying  I  con- 
cluded he  had  some  better  engagement,  when  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart replied  quickly — 

"  No,  indeed.     That  were  impossible." 

"  Will  you  come  then  ?     Pray  don't,  if  you  dishke  it." 

For  I  was  vexed  at  a  certain  hesitation  and  uneasiness  in 
his  manner,  which  implied  this ;  when  I  had  been  so  glad 
to  bring  him  the  invitation  and  had  taken  the  trouble  to 
cross  half  the  church-yard  after  him,  in  order  to  deliver  it; 
which  I  certainly  would  not  have  done  for  a  person  whom 
every  body  liked. 

N.B. — This  may  be  one  of  the  involuntary  reasons  for 
my  liking  Doctor  Urquhart ;  that  papa  and  I  myself  are 
the  only  two  persons  of  our  family  who  unite  in  that  opin- 
ion. Lisabel  makes  fun  of  him ;  Penelope  is  scarcely  civil 
to  him ;  but  that  is  because  Francis,  coming  down  last  week 
for  a  day,  took  a  violent  aversion  to  him. 


A   LIFE   POR   A   LIFE.  89 

I  heard  the  girls  laiigMng  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
where  we  stood. 

"Pray  please  yourself,  Doctor  Urquhart;  come,  or  not 
come  ;  but  I  can't  wait." 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  amused  air — yes,  I  certamly 
have  the  honor  of  amusing  him,  as  a  child  or  a  kitten 
would — ^then  said, 

"  He  would  be  happy  to  join  us." 

I  was  ashamed  of  myself  for  bemg  thus  pettish  with  a 
person  so  much  older  and  wiser  than  I,  and  who  ought  to 
be  excused  so  heartily  for  any  peculiarities  he  has ;  yet  he 
vexed  me.  He  does  vex  me  very  much,  sometimes.  I  can 
not  understand  why;  it  is  quite  a  new  feehng  to  be  so 
irritated  with  any  body.  Either  it  is  his  manner,  which  is 
rather  variable,  sometimes  cheerful  and  friendly,  and  then 
again  restless  and  cold ;  or  an  uncomfortable  sensation  of 
being  under  control,  which  I  never  yet  had,  even  toward 
my  own  father.  Once,  when  I  was  contesting  something 
with  him,  Augustus  noticed  it,  and  said,  laughing — 

"  Oh,  the  Doctor  makes  every  body  do  what  he  hkes : 
you'd  better  give  in  at  once.     I  always  do." 

But  I  can  not,  and  I  will  not. 

To  feel  vexed  with  a  person,  to  know  they  have  the 
power  of  vexing  you — that  a  chance  word  or  look  can 
touch  you  to  the  quick,  make  you  feel  all  over  in  a  state 
of  irritation,  as  if  all  the  world  went  wrong,  and  you  were 
ready  to  do  any  thing  cross,  or  sullen,  or  childishly  naughty 
— until  another  chance  word  or  look  happens  to  set  you 
right  again — this  is  an  extremely  uncomfortable  state  of 
things. 

I  must  guard  agamst  it.  I  must  not  allow  my  temper  to 
get  way.  Sensitive  it  is,  I  am  aware,  quick  to  feel  sore, 
and  to  take  offense  ;  but  I  am  not  a  thoroughly  ill-tempered 
woman.  Doctor  Urquhart  does  not  think  so :  he  told  me 
he  did  not.  One  day,  when  I  had  been  very  cross  with 
him,  he  said  "  I  had  done  him  no  harm ;  that  I  often  did 
him  good." 

Me — to  do  good  to  Doctor  Urquhart !  What  an  extra- 
ordinary thing ! 

I  Hke  to  do  people  good — to  do  it  my  own  self,  too — a 
mean  pleasure,  perhaps,  yet  it  is  a  pleasure,  and  I  was 
pleased  with  this  saying  of  Doctor  Urquhart's.  If  I  could 
but  believe  it !  I  do  believe  it  sometimes.  I  know  that  I  can 
make  him  smile,  let  him  look  ever  so  grave ;  that  something 


90  A  LIFE   FOK  A  LIFE. 

in  me  and  my  ways  interests  and  amuses  him  in  an  inglo- 
rious, kittenish  fashion,  as  I  said ;  yet,  still,  I  draw  him 
out  of  himself,  I  make  him  merry,  I  bring  light  into  his 
face,  till  one  could  hardly  believe  it  was  the  same  face  that 
I  first  saw  at  the  Cedars  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  me  to  think 
that,  by  some  odd  sympathy  or  other,  I  am  pleasant  to 
him,  as  I  am  to  few — alas !  to  very  few. 

I  know  when  people  dislike  me — know  it  keenly,  pain- 
fully; I  know,  too,  with  a  sort  of  stolid  patience,  when 
they  are  simply  indifferent  to  me.  Doubtless,  in  both 
cases,  they  have  every  reason ;  I  blame  nobody,  not  even 
myself,  I  only  state  a  fact.  But  with  si^h  people  I  can  no 
more  be  my  natural  self,  than  I  can  run  about  barefooted 
and  bareheaded  in  our  north  winds  or  moorland  snows. 
But  if  a  little  sunshine  comes,  my  heart  warms  to  it,  basks 
in  it,  dances  under  it,  hke  the  silliest  young  lamb  that  ever 
frisked  in  a  cowshp  meadow,  rejoicuig  in  the  May. 

I  am  not,  and  never  pretend  to  be,  a  humble  person.  I 
feel  there  is  that  in  me  which  is  worth  something,  but  a 
return  for  which  I  have  never  yet  received.  Give  me  its 
fair  equivalent,  its  full  and  honest  price,  and  oh,  if  I  could 
e^fpend  it  every  mite,  how  boundlessly  rich  I  should  grow ! 

This  last  sentence  means  nothing ;  nor  do  I  quite  under- 
stand it  myself.  Writing  a  journal  is  a  safety-valve  for 
much  folly,  yet  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  I  ought  to 
have  written  the  last  page. 

However,  no  more  of  this ;  let  me  tell  the  story  of  my 
day. 

Walking  from  church.  Doctor  Urquhart  told  me  that 
Augustus  had  asked  him  to  be  best-man  at  the  wedding. 

I  said  I  knew  it,  and  wished  he  would  consent. 

"Why?" 

Though  the  abruj)t  question  surprised  me,  I  answered, 
of  course,  the  truth ;  that  if  the  best-man  were  not  himself, 
it  would  be  one  of  the  camp  officers,  and  I  hated — " 

"  Soldiers  ?" 

I  told  him  it  was  not  kind  to  be  always  throwing  in  my 
teeth  that  imfortunate  speech,  that  he  ought  not  to  tease 
me  so. 

"  Do  I  tease  you  ?     I  was  not  aware  of  it." 

"  Very  likely  not,  and  I  am  a  great  simpleton  for  ahow- 
ing  myself  to  be  teased  with  such  trifles ;  but  Doctor  Urqu- 
hart can  not  expect  me  to  be  as  wise  as  himself,  he  is  a  great 
deal  older  than  I." 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  91 

"  Tell  me,  then,"  he  continued,  in  that  kind  tone  which 
always  makes  me  feel  something  like  a  little  pet  donkey  I 
once  had,  which,  if  I  called  it  across  the  field,  would  come 
and  lay  its  head  on  my  hand — not  that,  donkey  as  I  am,  I 
inchne  to  trouble  Doctor  Urquhart  in  that  way,  "  tell  me 
what  it  is  you  do  hate?" 

*'  I  hate  to  have  to  entertain  strangers." 

"  Then  you  do  not  consider  me  a  stranger  ?" 

"  I^o  ;  a  friend." 

I  may  say  that,  for,  short  as  our  acquaintance  dates,  I 
have  seen  more  of  Doctor  Urquhart,  and  seem  to  know  him 
better  than  any  man  in  the  whole  course  of  my  hfe.  He 
did  not  refuse  the  title  I  gave  him,  and  I  think  he  was 
gratified,  though  he  said  only, 

"  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  thank  you." 

Presently  I  recurred  to  the  subject  of  discussion,  and 
wished  him  to  promise  what  Augustus,  and  Lisabel,  and  we 
all  desired. 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said,  decisively, 

"  I  will  come." 

"That  is  right.  I  know  we  can  always  depend  upon 
Doctor  Urquhart's  promises." 

Was  my  gladness  over-bold?  "Would  he  misconstrue 
it  ?  ISTo ;  he  is  too  clear-sighted,  too  humble-minded,  too 
wise.  With  him  I  have  always  the  feeling  that  I  need 
take  no  trouble  over  what  I  do  or  say,  except  that  it  should 
be  true  and  sincere.  Whatever  it  is,  he  will  judge  it  fairly. 
And  if  he  did  not,  why  should  I  care  ? 

^ Yes,  I  should  care.  I  hke  him — I  like  him  very  much. 
It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me  to  have  him  for  a  friend,  one 
of  my  very  own.  In  some  degree  he  treats  me  as  such ; 
to-day,  for  instance,  he  told  me  more  about  himself  than  he 
ever  did  to  any  one  of  us.  It  came  out  accidentally.  I  can 
not  endure  a  man  who,  at  first  acquaintance,  indulges  you 
with  his  autobiography  in  full.  Such  a  one  must  be  either 
a  puppy  or  an  idiot. 

Ah!  there  I  am  again  at  my  harsh  judgments,  which 
Doctor  Urquhart  has  so  tacitly  reproved.  This  good  man, 
who  has  seen  more  of  the  world  and  its  wickedness  than  I 
am  ever  likely  to  see,  is  yet  the  most  charitable  man  I  ever 
knew.     To  return. 

Before  we  reached  Rockmount  the  sky  had  clouded 
over,  and  in  an  hour  it  was  a  thoroughly  wet  afternoon. 
Penelope  went  up  stairs  to  v/rite  her  Sunday  letter,  and 


92  A  LIFE   FOE,   A   LIFE. 

Augustus  and  Lisabel  gave  broad  hints  that  they  wished 
the  drawing-room  all  to  themselves.  Perforce,  Doctor 
Urquhart  and  I  had  to  entertain  ourselves. 

I  took  him  mto  the  green-house,  where  he  lectured  to 
me  on  the  orchidacea  and  vegetation  of  the  tropics  gen- 
erally, to  his  own  content,  doubtless,  and  partially  to  mine. 
I  like  to  hear  his  talking,  so  wise,  yet  so  simple ;  a  fresh- 
ness almost  boyish  seems  to  linger  in  his  nature  still,  and 
he  has  the  thoroughly  boyish  peculiarity  of  taking  pleasure 
in  little  things.  He  spent  half  an  hour  in  reviving  a  big 
brown  bee  which  had  grown  torpid  with  cold,  and  there 
was  in  his  eyes  a  kindness,  as  over  a  human  creature,  when 
he  gave  into  my  charge  his  "  little  patient,"  whom  I  prom- 
ised to  befriend.  (There  he  is,  poor  old  fellow,  fast  asleep 
on  a  flower-pot,  till  the  first  bright  morning  I  can  turn  him 
out.) 

"  I  am  afraid,  though,  he  will  soon  get  into  trouble  again, 
and  not  find  so  kind  a  friend,"  said  I  to  Doctor  Urquhart. 
"  He  will  intoxicate  himself  in  the  nearest  flower-cup,  and 
seek  repentance  and  restoration  too  late." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  doctor,  sadly  and  gravely. 

I  said  I  was  sorry  for  having  made  a  jest  upon  his  favor- 
ite doctrine,  of  repentance  and  restoration  of  sinners;  which 
he  seemed  always  both  to  preach  and  to  practice. 

"  Do  I  ?  Perhaps.  Do  you  not  thmk  it  is  very  much 
needed  in  this  world  ?" 

I  said  I  had  not  lived  long  enough  in  the  world  to  find 
out.  ^ 

"  I  forgot  how  young  you  were." 

He  had  once,  in  his  direct  way,  asked  my  age,  and  I  had 
told  him,  much  disposed  likewise  to  return  the  question, 
but  was  afraid.  Sometimes  I  feel  quite  at  home  with  him, 
as  if  I  could  say  any  thing  to  him,  and  then  again  he  makes 
me,  not  actually  afraid — thank  goodness,  I  never  was  afraid 
of  any  man  yet,  and  hope  I  never  shall  be — ^but  shy  and 
quiet.  I  suppose  it  is  because  he  is  so  very  good ;  because 
m  his  presence  my  little  foUies  and  wickednesses  hide  their 
heads.  I  cease  perplexing  myself  about  them,  or  about 
myself  at  all,  and  only  think — ^not  of  him  so  much  as  of 
something  higher  and  better  than  either  him  or  me.  Sure- 
ly this  can  not  be  wrong. 

The  bee  question  settled,  we  sat  down,  silent,  hstening 
to  the  rain  pattering  on  the  glass  roof  of  the  green-house. 
It  was  rather  a  dreary  day.     I  began  thmking  of  Lisabel's 


A   LIFE   FOR  A   LIFE.  93 

leaving  more  than  was  good  for  me ;  and  witli  that  pene- 
trative kindness  which  I  have  often  noticed  in  him,  Doctor 
Urquhart  turned  my  sad  thoughts  away  by  various  inform- 
ation about  Treherne  Court,  and  the  new  relations  of  our 
Lisa — not  many.  I  said,  "  happily,  she  would  have  neither 
brother  nor  sister-in-law." 

"  Happily !     You  can  not  be  in  earnest  ?" 

I  hall'  wished  I  had  not  been,  and  yet  I  could  not  but 
speak  my  nund — that  brothers  or  sisters,  in  law  or  in  blood, 
were  often  any  thing  but  a  blessing. 

"  I  must  emphatically  differ  from  you  there.  I  think  it 
is,  with  few  exceptional  cases,  the  greatest  misfortune  to 
be  an  only  child.  Few  are  so  natm-ally  good,  or  reared 
under  such  favorable  circumstances,  that  such  a  position 
does  not  do  them  harm.  A  lonely  childhood  and  youth 
may  make  a  great  man,  a  good  man,  but  it  rarely  makes  a 
happy  man.  Better  all  the  tussles  and  troubles  of  family 
life,  where  the  angles  of  character  are  rubbed  off,  and  its 
inclinations  to  morbidness,  sensitiveness,  and  egotism  knock- 
ed down.  I  think  it  is  a  great  wonder  to  see  Treherne 
such  a  good  fellow  as  he  is,  considering  he  has  been  an  only 
child." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  knew  what  that  was  yourself." 

"  No ;  we  were  orphans,  but  I  had  one  brother." 

This  was  the  first  time  Doctor  Urquhart  had  reverted  to 
any  of  his  relatives,  or  to  his  early  life.  My  curiosity  was 
strong.  I  risked  a  question :  was  this  brother  older  or  youn- 
ger than  he  ? 

"  Older." 

"  And  his  name  ?" 

"Dallas." 

"  Dallas  Urquhart — what  a  nice  name." 

"  It  is  common  in  the  family.  There  was  a  Dallas  Urqu- 
hart, younger  brother  to  a  Sir  John  Urquhart,  who,  in  the 
religious  troubles,  seceded  to  Episcopacy.  He  was  m  love 
with  a  minister's  sister — a  Presbyterian.  She  died  broken- 
hearted, and  in  despair  at  her  reproaches,  Dallas  threw  him- 
self down  a  precipice,  where  his  whitened  bones  were  not 
found  till  many  years  after.  Is  not  that  a  romantic  his- 
tory?" 

I  said  romantic  and  painful  histories  were  common 
enough ;  there  had  been  some  even  in  our  matter-of-fact 
family.  But  he  was  not  so  inquisitive  as  I ;  nor  should  I 
have  told  him  farther ;  we  never  speak  on  this  subject  if 


94  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

we  can  heljD  it.  Even  the  Grantons — our  intimate  friends 
ever  since  we  came  to  live  at  Kockmount — have  never  been 
made  acquainted  with  it.  And  Penelope  said  there  was  no 
need  to  tell  Augustus,  as  it  could  not  affect  him,  or  any  per- 
son now  living,  and,  for  the  sake  of  the  family,  the  sad  story 
was  better  forgotten.     I  think  so  too* 

With  a  sigh,  I  could  not  help  observing  to  Doctor  Urqu- 
hart  that  it  must  be  a  very  happy  thing  to  have  a  brother 
— a  good  brother. 

"  Yes.  Mine  was  the  best  that  any  one  ever  had.  He 
was  a  minister  of  the  Kirk — that  is,  he  would  have  been, 
but  he  died." 

"In  Scotland?" 

"  E'o — at  Pan,  in  the  Pyrenees." 

"  Were  you  with  him  ?" 

"  I  was  not." 

.This  seemed  a  remembrance  so  acutely  painful,  that  short- 
ly afterward  I  tried  to  change  the  subject  by  asking  a  ques- 
tion or  two  about  himself — and  especially  what  I  had  long 
wanted  to  find  out — how  he  came  by  that  eccentric  Chris- 
tian name. 

"  Is  it  eccentric  ?  I  reaUy  never  knew  or  thought  after 
whom^I  was  called." 

I  suggested,  Max  Piccolomini. 

"Who  was  he,  pray?  My  unprofessional  reading  has 
been  small.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  never  heard  of  Max 
Piccolomini." 

Amused  by  this  naive  confession  of  ignorance,  I  offered 
jestingly  to  give  him  a  course  of  polite  literature,  and  begin 
with  that  grandest  of  German  dramas,  Schiller's  Wallen- 
Btein. 

"  N'ot  in  German,  if  you  please ;  I  don't  know  a  dozen 
words  of  the  language." 

"  Why,  Doctor  Urquhart,  I  must  be  a  great  deal  cleverer 
than  you." 

I  had  said  this  out  of  utter  incredulity  at  the  ludicrous 
idea ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  he  took  it  seriously. 

"  You  are  right.  I  know  I  am  a  coarse,  uneducated  per- 
son ;  the  life  of  an  army  surgeon  allows  few  opportunities 
of  refinement,  and,  like  many  another  boy,  I  threw  away  my 
chances  when  I  had  them." 

"At  school?" 

"  College,  rather." 

"  Where  did  you  go  to  college  ?" 


A   LIFE  rOR   A   LIFE.  95 

"  At  St.  Andi-ew's." 

The  interrogative  mood  being  on  me,  I  thought  I  would 
venture  a  question  which  had  been  often  on  my  mind  to 
ask — ^namely,  what  made  him  choose  to  be  a  doctor,  which 
always  seemed  to  me  the  most  painful  and  arduous  of  pro- 
fessions. 

He  was  so  slow  in  answering,  that  I  began  to  fear  it  was 
one  of  my  too  blunt  queries,  and  apologized. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  desire  it.  My  motive  was  not  un 
like  one  you  once  suggested — ^to  save  life  mstead  of  de- 
stroying it;  also,  because  I  wished  to  have  my  own  life 
always  in  my  hand.  I  can  not  justly  consider  it  mine.  It 
is  Diced.'''' 

To  heaven,  I  conclude  he  meant,  by  the  solemnity  of  his 
manner.  Yet,  are  not  all  lives  owed  ?  And,  if  so,  my  early 
dream  of  perfect  bliss,  namely,  for  two  people  to  spend  theu^ 
lives  together  in  a  sort  of  domestic  Pitcairn's  Island,  cra- 
dled in  a  spiritual  Pacific  Ocean,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to 
love  one  another — must  be  a  delusion,  or  worse.  I  am  be- 
ginning to  be  glad  I  never  found  it.  We  are  not  the  birds 
and  butterflies,  but  the  laborers  of  the  earthly  vineyard.  To 
discover  one's  right  work,  and  do  it,  must  be  the  grand  se- 
cret of  life.  With  or  without  love,  I  wonder  ?  With  it,  I 
should  imagine.  But  Doctor  Urquhart,  m  his  plan  of  exist- 
ence, never  seems  to  think  of  such  an  insignificant  necessity. 

Yet  let  me  not  speak  Hghtly.  I  like  him — I  honor  him. 
Had  I  been  his  dead  brother,  or  a  sister — which  he  never 
had — I  would  have  helped  rather  than  have  hindered  him, 
in  his  self-sacrificing  career.  I  would  have  scorned  to  jout 
in  my  poor  claim  over  him  or  his  existence.  It  would  have 
seemed  like  taking  for  daily  uses  the  gold  of  the  sanctuary. 

And  here,  pondering  over  all  I  have  heard  of  him  and 
seen  in  him,  the  self-denial,  the  heroism,  the  religious  purity 
of  his  daily  life — which  has  roused  in  even  the  light  heart 
of  Augustus  Treherne  an  attachment  approaching  to  posi- 
tive devotion,  that  all  the  jesting  ofLisabel  is  powerless  to 
shake,  I  call  to  mind  one  incident  of  this  day  which  startled, 
shocked  me  ;  concerning  which  even  now  I  can  scarcely 
credit  the  evidence  of  my  own  ears. 

We  had  all  gathered  round  the  fire  waiting  papa's  return 
from  the  second  service ;  Penelope,  Lisabel,  Augustus,  Doc- 
tor Urquhart,  and  I ;  the  rain  had  cleared  off,  and  there 
was  only  a  soft  drip,  drip,  on  the  glass  of  the  green-house 
outside.     We  were  very  peaceful  and  comfortable ;  it  felt 


96  A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

almost  like  a  family  circle — which  indeed  it  was  with  one 
exception.  The  new  member  of  our  family  seemed  to  make 
himself  very  much  at  ease — sat  beside  his  Lisa,  and  held 
her  hand  under  cover  of  her  apron — at  which  I  thought  I 
saw  Doctor  Urquhart  smile.  Why  should  he  ?  It  was 
quite  natural. 

Penelope  was  less  restless  than  usual,  owing,  may  be,  to 
her  long  letter  and  the  prospect  of  seeing  Francis  in  a  week; 
he  comes  to  the  marriage,  of  course.  Poor  fellow !  what  a 
pity  we  can  not  have  two  weddings  instead  of  one ;  it  is 
rather  hard  for  him  to  be  only  a  wedding  guest,  and  Penel- 
ope only  a  bridesmaid.  But  I  am  ceasing  to  laugh  at  even 
Francis  and  Penelope. 

I  myself,  in  my  own  little  low  chair  in  its  right  angle  on 
the  hearth-rug,  felt  perfectly  happy.  Is  it  the  contrast  be- 
tween it  and  the  life  of  solitude  of  which  I  have  only  lately 
had  any  knowledge,  that  makes  my  own  home  life  so  much 
sweeter  than  it  used  to  be  ? 

The  gentlemen  began  talking  together  about  the  differ- 
ence between  this  quiet  scene  and  that  of  November  last 
year,  when,  Sebastopol  taken,  the  army  was  making  up  its 
mind  to  winter  in  idleness,  as  merrily  as  it  could.  And 
then  Doctor  Urquhart  reverted  to  the  former  winter,  the 
terrible  time,  until  its  miseries  reached  and  touched  the 
English  heart  at  home.  And  yet,  as  Doctor  Urquhart  said, 
such  misery  seems  often  to  evoke  the  noblest  half  of  man's 
nature.  Many  an  anecdote,  provmg  this,  he  told  about 
"  his  poor  fellows,"  as  he  called  them ;  tales  of  heroism,  pa- 
tient endurance,  unselfishness,  and  generosity — such  as,  in 
the  mysterious  agency  of  Providence,  are  always  developed 
by  that  great  purifier  as  well  as  avenger,  war. 

Listening,  my  cheek  burned  to  think  I  had  ever  said  I 
hated  soldiers.  It  is  a  solemn  question,  too  momentous  for 
human  wisdom  to  decide  upon,  and,  probably,  never  meant 
to  be  decided  in  this  world — the  justice  of  carnage,  the  ne- 
cessity of  war.  But  thus  far  I  am  convinced — and  intend, 
the  first  opportunity,  to  express  my  thanks  to  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart  for  having  taught  me  the  lesson — ^that  to  set  one's 
self  in  fierce  aversion  against  any  class,  as  a  class,  is  both 
foolish  and  wicked.  We  should  "hate"  nobody.  The 
Christian  warfare  is  never  against  sinners,  but  against  sin. 

Speaking  of  the  statistics  of  mortality  in  the  army.  Doc- 
tor Urquhart  surprised  us  by  stating  how  small  a  percent- 
age— ^bless  me,  I  am  beguming  to  talk  like  a  blue-book — 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  97 

results  from  death  in  battle  and  from  wounds.  And,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  the  mortality  in  a  campaign,  with  all  its 
fatal  chances,  is  less  than  in  barracks  at  home.  He  has  long 
susiDected  this,  from  the  accounts  of  the  men,  and  having 
lately,  fi'om  clear  data,  ascertained  its  accuracy,  intends  urg- 
ing it  at  the  Horse  Guards,  or  faihng  there,  in  the  pubhc 
press,  that  the  causes  may  be  inquired  into  and  remedied. 
It  will  be  at  some  personal  risk — Government  never  likes 
being  meddled  with ;  but  he  seems  the  sort  of  man  who, 
having  once  got  an  idea  into  his  head,  would  pursue  it  to 
the  death — and  very  right  too.  K  I  had  been  a  man  I 
would  have  done  exactly  the  same. 

All  this  while  I  have  never  told — that  thing.  It  came 
out,  as  well  as  I  can  remember,  thus : 

Doctor  Urquhart  was  saying  that  the  average  mortality 
of  soldiers  in  barracks  was  higher  than  that  of  any  corre- 
sponding class  of  working  men.  He  attributes  this  to  want 
of  space,  cleanliness,  fresh  air,  and  good  food. 

"  Also  to  another  cause,  which  you  always  find  flourish- 
ing under  such  circiunstances — drink.  It  is  in  a  barracks 
just  as  in  the  courts  and  alleys  of  a  large  city — wherever 
you  find  people  huddled  together  in  foul  air,  ill  smells,  and 
general  wretchedness — they  drink.  They  can  not  help  it,  it 
seems  a  natural  necessity." 

"  There,  we  have  the  doctor  on  his  hobby.  Gee-up,  Doc- 
tor !"  cried  Augustus.  I  wonder  his  friend  stands  his  non- 
sense so  good-humoredly. 

"  You  kuow  it  is  true,  though,  Treherne,"  and  he  went 
on  speaking  to  me.  "  In  the  Crimea,  the  great  curse  of 
our  army  was  drink.  Drink  kiUed  more  of  us  than  the 
Russians  did.  You  should  have  seen  what  I  have  seen — 
the  officer  maddening  himself  with  Champagne  at  the  mess- 
table — the  private  stealing  out  to  a  rum-store  to  booze  se- 
cretly over  his  grog.  The  thing  was  obliged  to  be  winked 
at,  it  was  so  common." 

"  In  hospital,  too,"  observed  Captain  Treherne,  gradually 
listening.  "Don't  you  remember  telUng  me  there  was  not 
a  week  passed  that  you  had  not  cases  of  deiath  solely  from 
drinking?" 

"  And,  even  then,  I  could  not  stop  it,  nor  keep  the  liquor 
outside  the  wards.  I  have  come  in  and  found  drunken  or- 
derlies carousing  with  drunken  ^patients ;  nay,  more  than 
once  I  have  taken  the  brandy-bottle  from  imder  a  "dead 
man's  pillow."  .  - " 

-  E 


98  A   LIFE    FOR   A    LIFE. 

"  Ay,  I  remember,"  said  Augustus,  looking  grave. 
Lisabel,  who  never  likes  Ms  attention  diverted  from  her 
charming  self,  cried  saucily : 

"  All  very  fine  talking.  Doctor,  but  you  shall  not  make 
me  a  teetotaller,  nor  Augustus  neither,  I  hope." 

""  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  the  kind,  I  assure 
you ;  nor  does  there  seem  any  necessity.    Though,  for  those 
wko  have  not  the  power  to  resist  intoxication,  it  is  much 
safer  never  to  touch  stimulants." 
"  Do  you  not  touch  them  ?" 
"  I  have  not  done  so  for  many  years." 
"  Because  you  are  afraid  ?     Well,  I  dare  say  you  were 
no  better  once  than  your  neighbors." 

"  Lisabel !"  I  whispered,  for  I  saw  Doctor  TJrquhart  wince 
under  her  rude  words ;  but  there  is  no  stoppmg  that  girl's 
tongue. 

"  N'ow  confess,  Doctor,  just  for  fun.    Papa  is  not  here, 
and  we'll  tell  no  tales  out  of  school — were  you  ever  in  your 
life,  to  use  your  own  ugly  word,  drunk  .^" 
"  Once." 

Writmg  this,  I  can  hardly  believe  he  said  it,  and  yet  he 
did,  in  a  quiet,  low  voice,  as  if  the  confession  was  forced 
from  him  as  a  sort  of  voluntary  expiation. 

Doctor  TJrquhart  drunk  !  What  a  frightful  idea !  Un- 
der what  circumstances  could  it  possibly  have  happened  ? 
One  thing  I  would  stake  my  fife  upon — it  never  happened 
but  that  once. 

I  have  been  thinking,  how  horrible  it  must  be  to  see 
any  body  one  cared  for  drunk :  the  honest  eyes  dull  and 
meaningless ;  the  wise  lips  jabbering  foolishness ;  the  whole 
face  and  figure,  instead  of  being  what  one  hkes  to  look  at, 
takes  pleasure  to  see  in  the  same  room,  even — growing 
ugly,  irrational,  disgusting — more  like  a  beast  than  a  man. 
Yet  some  women  have  to  bear  it,  have  to  speak  kindly 
to  their  husbands,  hide  their  brutishness,  and  keep  them 
from  making  worse  fools  of  themselves  than  they  can  help, 
I  have  seen  it  done,  not  merely  by  working-men's  wives, 
but  lady-wives  in  drawing-rooms.  I  think,  if  I  were  mar- 
ried, and  I  saw  my  husband  the  least  overcome  by  wine, 
not  "  drunk,"  may  be,  but  just  excited,  silly,  otherwise 
than  his  natural  self,  it  would  nearly  drive  me  wild.  Less 
on  my  own  account  than  his.  To  see  him  sink — not  for  a 
great  crime,  but  a  contemptible,  cowardly  bit  of  sensual- 
ism— from  the  height  where  my  love  had  placed  him ;  to 


A  LIFE  rOE   A   LIFE.  99 

have  to  take  care  of  Mm,  to  pity  him ;  ay,  and  I  might 
pity  him,  but  I  think  the  full  glory  and  passion  of  my  love 
ivould  die  out,  then  and  there,  forever. 

Let  me  not  think  of  this,  but  go  on  relating  what  oc- 
curred to-day. 

Doctor  Urquhart's  abrupt  confession,  which  seemed  to 
surprise  Augustus  as  much  as  any  body,  threw  an  awk- 
wardness over  us  all;  we  slipped  out  of  the  subject,  and 
plunged  into  the  never-ending  theme — the  wedding  and  its 
arrangements.  Here  I  foimd  out  that  Doctor  IJrquhart 
had,  at  first,  refused,  point-blank,  his  friend's  request  that 
he  would  be  best-man,  but,  on  my  entreating  him  this  morn- 
ing, had  changed  his  mind.  I  was  glad,  and  expressed  my 
gladness  warmly.  I  would  not  like  Doctor  Urquhart  to 
suppose  we  thought  the  worse  of  him  for  what  he  had  con- 
fessed, or  rather  had  been  forced  into  confessing.  It  was 
very  ivrong  of  Lisabel.  But  she  really  seemed  sorry,  and 
paid  him  special  attention  in  consultations  about  what  she 
thinks  the  important  affairs  of  Monday  week.  I  was  al- 
most cross  at  the  exemplary  patience  with  which  he  ex- 
amined the  orange-tree,  and  pronounced  that  the  buds 
would  open  in  time,  he  thought :  that  if  not,  he  would  try, 
as  in  duty  boimd,  to  procure  some.  He  also  heroically 
consented  to  his  other  duty,  of  returning  thanks  for  "  the 
bridesmaids,"  for  we  are  to  have  healths  drunk,  speeches 
made,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Mercy  on  us !  how  will  papa 
ever  stand  it ! 

These  family  events  have  always  then-  painful  side.  I 
am  sure  papa  will  feel  it.  I  only  trust  that  no  chance  ob- 
servations will  strike  home,  and  hurt  him.  This  fear 
haunted  me  so  much,  that  I  took  an  opportunity  of  sug- 
gesting to  Doctor  Urquhart  that  all  the  speeches  had  bet- 
ter be  as  short  as  possible. 

"  Mine  shall  be,  I  promise.  Were  you  afraid  of  it  ?" 
asked  he,  smiling ;  it  was  just  before  the  horses  were 
brought  up,  and  we  were  all  standing  out  in  the  moonlight 
— for  shame,  moon,  leading  us  to  catch  cold  just  before  our 
wedding,  and  very  thougTitless  of  the  doctor  to  allow  it, 
too.  I  could  see  by  his  smile  that  he  was  now  quite  him- 
self agam — which  was  a  rehef. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  I  shall  expect  you  to  make  the  grandest 
speech  that  ever  was  heard.  But,  seriously,  these  sort  of 
speeches  are  always  trying,  and  will  be  so  especially  to 
papa." 


100  A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE. 

"  I  understand.  We  must  take  care :  you  are  a  thought- 
ful httle  lady."  He  sometimes  has  called  me  "  Little  Lady," 
instead  of  "  Miss  Theodora."  "  Yes,  your  father  will  feel 
acutely  this  first  break  in  the  family." 

I  said  I  did  not  mean  that  exactly,  as  it  was  not  the 
case.  And,  for  the  first  time,  it  struck  me  as  sad,  that  one 
whom  I  never  knew,  whom  I  scarcely  ever  think  of,  should 
be  lost  from  among  us,  so  lost  as  not  to  be  even  named. 

Doctor  Urquhart  asked  me  why  I  looked  so  grave  ?  At 
first  I  said  I  had  rather  not  tell  him,  and  then  I  felt  as  if 
at  that  moment,  standing  quietly  talking  in  the  lovely  night, 
after  such  a  hapj)y  day,  it  were  a  comfort,  almost  a  neces- 
sity, to  tell  hun  any  thing,  every  thing. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  some  one  belonging  to  me  whom  no- 
body knows  of,  whom  we  never  speak  about.  Hush,  don't 
let  them  hear." 

"  Who  was  it?  But  I  beg  your  pardon,  do  not  tell  me 
unless  you  like." 

From  his  tone — he  thought,  I  know  he  thought—  Oh, 
what  a  ridiculous,  impossible  thing !  Then  I  was  determ- 
ined to  tell. 

"  It  was  one — who  was  papa's  favorite — among  us  all." 

"A  sister?" 

"  :N^o,  a  brother."  -  . 

I  had  not  time  to  say  any  more,  for  they  were  just  start- 
ing, nor  am  I  satisfied  that  I  was  right  in  saying  so  much. 
But  the  confidence  is  safe  with  him,  and  he  will  never  refer 
to  it ;  he  will  feel,  as  we  do,  that  a  subject  so  painful  is 
best  avoided,  even  among  ourselves — on  the  whole  I  am 
glad  he  knows. 

Coming  indoors,  the  girls  made  me  very  angry  by  their 
jests,  but  the  anger  has  somehow  evaporated  now.  What 
does  it  matter?  As  I  told  Lisabel,  friends  do  not  grow 
on  every  hedge,  though  lovers  may,  and  when  one  finds  a 
good  man  one  ought  to  value  him,  nor  be  ashamed  of  it 
either. 

No,  no,  my  sweet  moon,  setting  so  quickly  behind  that 
belt  of  firs,  I  will  like  him  if  I  choose,  as  I  like  every  thing 
true  and  noble  wherever  I  find  it  in  this  world. 

Moon,  it  is  a  good  world,  a  happy  world,  and  grows 
happier  the  longer  one  lives  in  it.  So  I  will  just  watch 
your  silver  ladyship — a  nice  "  httle  lady",  you  are  too — 
slippmg  away  from  it  with  that  satisfied  farewell  smile,  and 
then — I  shall  go  to  bed. 


A  LIFE  FOE   A  LIFE.  101 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HIS    STORY. 

It  is  a  fortniglit  since  I  wrote  a  line  here. 

Last  Sunday  week  I  made  a  discovery — in  truth,  two 
discoveries — after  which  I  lost  myself,  as  it  were,  for  many 
days. 

It  will  be  advisable  not  to  see  any  more  of  that  family. 
Il^ot  that  I  have  any  proof  that  they  are  the  family — the 
name  itself,  Johnson,  and  their  acknowledged  plebeian  ori- 
gin, is  sufficient  e^ddence  to  the  contrary.  But,  if  they  had 
been ! 

The  mere  supposition,  coming,  instinctively,  that  Sunday 
night,  before  reason  argued  it  down,  was  enough  to  cause 
me  twelve  such  hours  as  would  be  purchased  dearly  with 
twelve  years  of  hfe — even  a  hfe  full  of  such  happiness  as,  I 
then  learned,  is  possible  for  a  man.  But  not  for  me.  Xever 
for  me ! 

This  phase  of  the  subject  is,  however,  so  exclusively  my 
own,  that  even  here  I  will  pass  it  over.  It  will  be  con- 
quered by-and-by — ^being  discovered  in  time. 

I  went  to  the  marriage — ^liaving  promised.  She  said. 
Doctor  Urquhart  never  breaks  his  promises,  ^o.  Tliere 
is  one  promise — ^nay,  vow — kept  miflinchingly  for  twenty 
years ;  could  it  be  broken  now  ?  It  never  could.  Before 
it  is  too  late — I  ^vill  take  steps  to  teach  myself  that  it  never 
shaU. 

I  only  joined  the  marriage  party  during  the  ceremony. 
They  excused  me  the  breakfast,  speeches,  etc.  Treherne 
knew  I  was  not  well.  Also,  she  said  I  looked  "  over- 
worked," and  there  was  a  kind  of  softness  in  her  eye,  the 
pity  that  aU  women  have,  and  so  readily  show. 

She  looked  the  very  picture  of  a  white  fairy,  or  a  wood- 
nymph — or  an  angel,  sliding  down  on  a  sifnshmy  cloud  to  a 
man  asleep.     He  wakes  and  it  is  all  gone. 

While  the  register  was  behig  signed — and  they  wished 
me  to  be  one  of  the  attestmg  witnesses — an  idea  came  into 
my  mind. 

The  family  must  have  settled  at  Rockmount  for  many 
years.     Probably,  the  grandfither,  the  farmer  who  wrote 


102  A  LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

himself,  plebeianly,  "Johnson,"  was  buried  here.  Or — 
if  he  were  dead — whether  it  was  so  or  not,  I  had  no  clew 
— here,  probably,  would  be  registered  the  interment  of 
that  brother  to  whom  allusion  had  been  made  as  "  papa's 
favorite,"  but  in  such  a  manner,  and  with  such  evident?  dis- 
tress, that  to  make  farther  mquiry  about  him  was  impossi- 
ble. Besides,  I  must  have  no  more  private  talk  with  her 
— with  the  one  of  the  Misses  Johnston  whom  I  know  best. 

This  brother — I  have  calculated  his  possible  age,  com- 
pared with  theirs.  Even  were  he  the  eldest  of  them,  he 
could  not  now  be  much  above  thirty — if  alive.  That  per- 
son would  now  be  at  least  fifty. 

Still,  at  once  and  forever  to  root  up  any  such  morbid, 
unutterable  fancies,  I  thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  turn 
over  the  register-books,  as,  without  suspicion,  it  was  this 
day  easy  to  do.  On  my  way  home  I  stopped  at  the  church 
— and,  helped  by  the  half-stupid  sexton  and  bell-ringer, 
went  over  the  village  records  of,  he  declared,  the  last 
twenty  years  and  more.  In  none  of  them  was  once  named 
the  family  of  Johnston. 

No  proof,  therefore,  of  my  cause  of  dread — not  an  atom, 
not  a  straw.  All  evidence  hitherto  gomg  directly  counter 
to  a  supposition — the  horror  of  which  would  surpass  all 
horrible  coincidences  that  fate  could  work  out  for  a  man's 
punishment.     Let  me  put  it  aside. 

The  other  thing — God  help  me !  I  believe  I  shall  also 
be  able  to  put  aside — being  entirely  my  own  affair- — and  I 
myself  being  the  only  sufferer. 

Now  Treherne  is  married  and  away,  there  wiU  be  no 
necessity  to  visit  at  Rockmomit  any  more. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HER   STORY. 

What  a  change  a  marriage  makes ;  what  a  blank  it 
leaves  in  a  house !  Ours  has  been  very  dull  since  poor 
Lisa  went  away. 

I  know  not  why  I  call  her  "  poor  Lisa."  She  seems  the 
gayest  of  the  gay,  and  the  happiest  of  the  happy ;  two 
characters  which,  by  the  way,  are  not  always  identical. 
Her  letters  from  Paris  are  full  of  enjoyment.  Augustus 
takes  her  every  where,  and  introduces  lier  to  every  body. 


A  LIFE  FOR   A   LIFE.  103 

She  was  the  "belle  mariee"  of  a  ball  at  the  Britisb  Em- 
bassy, and  has  been  presented  to  my  old  aversion,  though 
he  is  really  tm^ning  out  a  creditable  individual  in  some 
things ;  "  never  too  late  to  mend,"  even  for  a  Louis  Napo- 
leon. Of  course,  Lisabel  now  thinks  him  "  the  most  charm- 
ing man  in  the  world,"  except  Augustus. 

Strange  that  she  should  take  delight  m  such  dissipations. 
She  not  three  weeks  married.  How  very  httle  she  must  have 
of  her  husband's  society.  Now,  I  should  think  the  pleas- 
antest  way  of  spending  a  honeymoon  would  be  to  get  out 
of  every  body's  way,  and  have  a  httle  peace  and  quiet, 
rambling  about  at  liberty,  and  looking  at  pretty  places  to- 
gether. But  tastes  differ ;  that  is  not  Lisabel's  fancy,  nor 
was  hers  the  sort  of  marriage  likely  to  make  such  a  honey- 
moon desirable.  She  used  to  say  she  should  get  tired  of 
the  angel  Gabriel  if  she  had  him  all  to  herself  for  four 
mortal  weeks.  Possibly  ;  I  remember  once  making  a  sim- 
ilar remark. 

But  surely  that  dread  and  weariness  of  two  people,  in 
being  left  to  one  another's  sole  society,  must  apply  chiefly 
to  cases  of  association  for  mere  amusement  or  convenience ; 
not  to  those  who  voluntarily  bind  their  lives  together,  "  for 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in 
health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  till  death  us  do  part."  How 
solemn  the  words  are !  They  thrilled  me  all  through  on 
the  morning  of  Lisabel's  marriage. 

I  have  never  set  down  here  any  thing  about  that  day.  I 
suppose  it  resembled  most  other  wedding-days — came  and 
went  hke  a  dream,  and  not  a  very  happy  dream  either. 
There  seemed  a  cloud  over  us  all. 

One  of  the  reasons  was,  Francis  did  not  come.  -  At  the 
last  minute  he  sent  an  apology,  which  was  not  behaving 
well,  I  thought.  Nor  did  the  excuse  seem  a  valid  one. 
But  it  might  have  been  a  painful  day  to  him,  and  Francis 
is  one  of  those  sort  of  people — ^very  pleasant,  and  not  ill- 
meaning  people  either — who  like  to  escape  pain,  if  possible. 
Still,  he  might  have  considered  that  it  was  not  Hkely  to  be 
the  happiest  of  days  to  Penelope  herself,  nor  made  more  so 
by  his  absence,  which  she  bore  in  perfect  silence  ;  and  no- 
body, except  Augustus,  who  observed,  laughingly,  that  it 
was  "just  like  Cousin  Charteris,"  ventured  any  comment 
on  the  subject. 

I  do  not  join  Mrs.  Granton  and  our  Lisa  in  their  tirades 
against  long  engagements.    I  do  not  see  why,  when  people 


104  A  LITE   FOE   A  LIFE. 

are  really  fond  of  one  another,  and  can  not  possibly  be  mar- 
ried, they  should  not  live  contentedly  betrothed  for  an  in- 
definite time.  It  is  certainly  better  than  living  wholly  apart, 
forlorn  and  hopeless,  neither  having  toward  the  other  any 
open  right,  or  claim,  or  duty.  But,  then,  every  betrothal 
should  resemble  marriage  itself,  in  its  perfect  confidence, 
patience,  and  unexacting  tenderness.  Also,  it  ought  never 
to  be  made  so  pubfic  or  allowed  to  be  so  cruelly  talked  over 
as  this  engagement  ofTenelope's. 

Well,  Francis  did  not  appear,  and  every  body  left  earlier 
than  we  had  expected.  On  the  marriage  evening  we  were 
quite  alone,  and  the  day  after  Rockmount  was  its  dull  self 
again,  except  the  want  of  poor  Lisa. 

I  still  call  her  so  \  I  can  not  help  it.  We  never  discover 
the  value  of  things  till  we  have  lost  them.  Out  of  every 
corner  I  miss  our  Lisa :  her  light  laugh  that  used  to  seem 
heartless,  yet  was  the  merriest  sound  in  the  house ;  her  tall, 
handsome  figure  sailing  in  and  about  the  rooms ;  her  imper- 
turbable good  temper,  which  I  often  tried ;  her  careless,  un- 
tidy ways,  that  used  forever  to  aggravate  Penelope,  down 
to  her  very  foUies  and  flirtations,  carried  on  to  the  last  in 
spite  of  Augustus. 

My  poor  Lisa !  The  putting  away  of  her  music  from  the 
piano,  her  books  from  the  shelf,  and  her  clothes  from  the 
drawers,  cost  me  as  sharp  an  agony  as  I  ever  had  in  my 
life.  I  was  not  half  good  enough  to  her  when  I  had  her. 
If  I  had  her  again  how  difi*erent  it  should  be.  Ah !  that  is 
what  we  always  say,  as  the  great  shadow  Time  keeps  ad- 
vancing and  advancing,  yet  we  always  let  it  slip  by,  and  we 
can  not  make  it  go  back  for  a  single  hour. 

Mrs.  Granton  and  Colin  came  to  tea  to-night.  Their  com- 
pany was  a  relief;  our  eveniugs  are  often  very  dull.  We 
sit  all  three  together,  but  none  has  much  sympathy  with 
what  the  other  is  doing  or  thinking ;  as  not  seldom  hap- 
pens in  families,  we  each  live  in  a  distinct  world  of  our  own, 
never  intruded  on,  save  when  we  have  collectively  to  en- 
tertain visitors.  Papa  asked  Doctor  Urquhart  to  dinner 
twice,  but  received  an  apology  both  times,  which  rather  of- 
fended him,  and  he  says  he  shall  not  invite  him  again  until 
he  has  called.  He  ought  to  call,  for  an  old  man  likes  atten- 
tion, and  is  justified  in  exacting  it. 

To-night,  while  Mrs.  Granton  gossiped  with  papa  and 
Penelope,  Colin  talked  to  me.  He'bears  Lisabel's  marriage 
far  better  than  I  expected,  probably  because  he  has  got 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  105 

something  to  do."  He  told  me  a  long  story  about  a  row  of 
laborers'  cottages,  which  Doctor  Urquhart  advised  him  to 
build  at  the  corner  of  the  moor,  each  with  its  bit  of  land, 
convertible  into  a  potato-field  or  a  garden.  There  Colin 
busies  himself  from  morning  till  night,  superintending,  plan- 
ning, building,  draining,  "  working  like  a  horse,"  he  pro- 
tests, "  and  never  enjoyed  any  thing  more  in  his  life."  He 
says  he  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  Doctor  Urquhart  lately, 
and  had  great  assistance  from  him  in  the  matter  of  these 
cottages. 

Then  can  he  be  so  exceedingly  occupied  as  not  to  have 
an  hour  or  two  for  a  visit  ?  Shame  on  me  for  the  suspi- 
cion !  The  idea  that  Doctor  Urquhart  would,  even  in  a 
polite  excuse,  state  a  thing  which  was  not  true ! 

Colin  is  much  improved.  He  is  beginning  to  suspect 
that  Colin  Granton,  Esq.,  owner  of  a  free  estate,  and  twen- 
ty-seven years  old,  has  got  something  to  do  besides  lounge 
about,  shoot  rabbits,  and  play  billiards.  He  opened  up  to 
my  sympathy  a  long  series  of  schemes  about  these  cottages ; 
how  he  meant  to  instigate  industry,  cleanliness,  and,  indeed, 
all  the  cardinal  ^drtues,  by  means  of  cottagers'  prizes  for 
tidy  houses,  well-kept  gardens,  and  the  best  brought-up 
and  largest  families.  He  will  never  be  clever,  poor  Colin ! 
but  may  be  a  most  useful  character  in  the  county,  and  he 
has  the  kindest  heart  in  the  workL  By  the  way,  he  told 
me  in  his  ultra-simple  fashion  that  somebody  had  informed 
him  one  of  the  Rockmount  young  ladies  said  so !  I  felt 
myself  grow  hot  to  the  ears,  whick  exceedingly  astonished 
Colm.     . 

Altogether,  a  not  unpleasant  evening  ;  but  oh,  moon ! — 
whom  I  saw  making  cross-panes  on  the  carpet  when  I  came 
in — it  was  not  like  the  evenings  a  month  ago,  when  Lisabel 
was  at  home. 

I  think  women  as  well  as  men,  require  something  to  do. 
I  wish  I  had  it ;  it  would  do  me  as  much  good  as  it  has 
done  Colin.  I  am  beginning  to  fear  I  lead  a  wretchedly 
idle  hie  ;  all  young  ladies  at  home  do,  it  seems,  except,  per- 
haps, the  eldest  sister,  if  she  chances  to  be  such  a  woman 
as  our  Penelope.  Why  can  not  I  help  our  Penelope  ?  Mrs. 
Granton  took  it  for  granted  that  I  do;  that  I  shall  be  the 
greatest  comfort  and  assistance  to  Miss  Johnston,  now  Miss 
Lisabel  is  gone. 

I  am  not  the  least  in  the  world !  which  I  was  tempted  to 
exT)lain,  only  mere  friends  can  never  understand  the  ins  and 

E  2 


2t)6  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

outs  of  a  family.  If  I  offered  to  assist  her  in  the  house, 
how  Penelope  would  stare !  or  even  in  her  schools  and  par- 
ish, but  that  I  can  not  do.  Teaching  is  to  me  perfectly  in- 
tolerable. The  moment  I  have  to  face  two  dozen  pairs  of 
round  eyes  every  particle  of  sense  takes  flight,  and  I  be- 
come the  veriest  of  cowards,  ready  to  sink  through  the 
floor.  The  same,  too,  in  district  visiting.  What  business 
have  I,  because  I  happen  to  be  the  clergyman's  daughter, 
to  go  lifting  the  latch  and  poking  about  poor  people's 
houses,  obliging  them  to  drop  me  courtesies,  and  receive 
civilly  my  tracts  and  advice,  which  they  neither  read  nor 
follow,  and  might  be  none  the  better  for  it  if  they  did  ? 

Yet  this  may  be  only  my  sophistries  for  not  doing  what 
I  so  heartily  dislike.  Others  do  it,  and  successfully;  take 
by  storm  the  poor  folks'  hearts,  and  what  is  better,  their 
confidence;  never  enter  without  a  welcome,  and  depart 
without  a  blessing ;  as,  for  instance.  Doctor  Urquhart. 
Mrs.  Granton  was  telling  about  his  doings  among  the  poor 
families  down  with  fever  and  ague,  near  the  camp  at  Moor- 
edge. 

Why  can  not  I  do  the  same  good?  not  so  much,  of 
course,  but  just  a  httle.  Why  can  not  somebody  show  me 
how  to  do  it  ? 

'No,  I  am  not  worthy.  My  quarter  century  of  life  has 
been  of  no  more  use  to  myself  or  any  human  creature  than 
that  fly's  which  my  fire  has  stirred  up  to  a  foolish  buzzing 
in  the  window-curtain  before  it  drops  and  dies.  I  might 
drop  down  and  die  in  the  same  manner,  leaving  no  better 
memorial. 

There !  I  hear  Penelope  in  her  room  fidgeting  about  her 
drawers,  and  scolding  the  housemaid.  She  is  always  tak- 
ing juvenile,  incompetent  housemaids  out  of  her  village 
school,  teaching  and  lecturing  them  for  a  twelvemonth,  and 
then  grumbling  because  they  leave  her.  Yet,  this  is  doing 
good ;  sometimes  they  come  back  and  thank  her  for  hav- 
ing made  capital  servants  of  them ;  and  very  seldom  indeed 
does  such  a  case  happen  as  pretty,  silly  Lydia  Cartwright's, 
who  went  up  to  London  and  never  came  back  any  more. 

My  dear  sister  Penelope,  who,  except  in  company,  hard- 
ly has  a  civil  word  for  any  body,  Francis  excepted— Penel- 
ope, who  has  managed  the  establishment  ever  since  she  was 
a  girl  of  sixteen — has  kept  the  house  comfortable,  and  main- 
tained the  credit  of  the  family  to  the  world  without — truly, 
with  all  your  little  tempers,  sneers,  and  crabbednesses,  you 
are  worth  a  dozen  of  your  sister  Theodora. 


A   LITE   FOE   A   LIFE.  107 

I  wonder  if  Doctor  Urquhart  thinks  so.  He  looked  at 
her  closely,  more  than  once,  when  we  were  speaking  about 
Francis.  He  and  she  would  have  many  meeting  points  of 
interest,  if  they  only  knew  it,  and  talked  much  together. 
She  is  not  very  sweet  to  him,  but  that  would  not  matter ; 
he  only  values  people  for  what  they  are,  and  not  for  the 
manner  in  which  they  behave  to  himself.  Perhaps,  if  they 
were  better  acquainted,  Penelope  might  prove  a  better 
friend  for  him  than  the  "  little  lady." 

"  Little  lady !"  That  is  just  such  a  name  as  one  would 
give  to  an  idle,  useless,  butterfly  creature,  of  no  value  but 
as  an  amusement,  a  plaything  of  leisure  hours,  in  time  of 
business  or  care  to  be  altogether  set  aside  and  forgotten. 

Does  he  think  me  that  f     K  he  does — why,  let  Mm. 

A  fine  proof  of  how  dull  Pockmount  is,  and  how  little  I 
have  to  write  about,  when  I  go  on  scribbling  such  triviali- 
ties as  these.  If  no  better  subjects  can  be  found,  I  shall 
give  up  my  journal.  Meantime,  I  intend  next  week  to  be- 
gin a  serious  course  of  study,  in  history,  Latin,  and  Ger- 
man. For  the  latter,  instead  of  desultory  reading,  I  shall 
try  written  translations,  probably  from  my  favorite  Wal- 
lenstein.  To  think  that  any  body  should  have  been  igno- 
rant even  of  the  name  of  Max  Piccolomini !  He  always 
was  my  ideal  of  a  hero^faithful,  trustful,  brave,  and  infin- 
itely loving,  yet  able  to  renounce  love  itself  for  the  sake  of 
conscience.  And  then  once  a  week  I  shall  have  a  long  let- 
ter to  write  to  Lisabel — I,  who'  never  had  a  regular  corre- 
spondence in  my  hfe.  It  will  be  almost  as  good  as  Penel- 
ope's with  Francis  Charteris. 

At  last  I  hear  Penelope  dismiss  her  maiden,  bolt  the  door, 
and  settle  for  the  night.  When,  for  a  wonder,  she  finds 
herself  alone  and  quiet,  with  nothing  to  do,  and  nobody  to 
lecture,  I  wonder  what  Penelope  thmks  about  ?  Is  it  Fran- 
cis ?  Do  people  in  their  position  always  think  about  one 
another  the  last  thmg?  Probably.  When  all  the  day's 
cares  and  pleasures  are  ended,  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
shut  out,  the  heart  would  naturally  turn  to  the  only  one  in 
whom,  next  to  Heaven,  is  its  real  rest,  its  best  comfort, 
closer  than  either  friend,  or- brother,  or  sister — less  another 
person  than  half  itself. 

No  sentiment !     Go  to  bed,  Theodora. 


108  A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HIS    STORY. 

I  HAD  almost  given  tip  writing  here.  Is  it  wise  to  begin 
again  ?  Yet,  to-day,  in  the  silent  hut,  with  the  east  wind 
howling  outside  almost  as  fiercely  as  it  used  to  howl  last 
winter  over  the  steppes  of  the  Caucasus,  one  must  do  some- 
thing, if  only  to  kill  time. 

Usually,  I  have  little  need  for  that  resource ;  this  barrack 
business  engrosses  every  leisure  hour. 

The  commander-in-chief  has  at  length  promised  a  com- 
mission of  inquiry,  if  sufficient  data  can  be  supplied  to  him 
to  warrant  it.  I  have,  therefore,  been  collecting  evidence 
from  every  barrack  in  the  United  Kingdom,  and  visiting 
personally  all  within  a  day  or  two  days'  leave  from  the 
camp.    The  most  important  were  those- of  the  metropolis. 

It  is  needless  here  to  recur  to  details  of  which  my  head 
has  been  full  all  the  week,  till  a  seventh  day's  rest  and 
change  of  ideas  become  almost  priceless.  Unprofessional 
men  can  not  understand  this;  yonng  Granton  could  not 
when  coming  down  from  town  with  me  last  night ;  he  was 
lamenting  that  he  should  not  get  at  his  cottage-building, 
which  he  keeps  up,  in  defiance  of  winter  weather,  till  Mon- 
day morning. 

Mr.  Granton  indulged  me  with  much  conversation  about 
some  friends  of  his,  which  inclines  me  to  believe  that  "the 
kindest  heart  in  the  world"  has  not  suffered  an  incurable 
blow,  and  is  already  proceeding  to  seek  consolation  else- 
where. It  may  be  so.  The  young  are  pleasant  to  the 
young ;  the  happy  delight  in  the  happy. 

To  return  to  my  poor  fellows ;  my  country  bumpkins  and 
starving  mechanics,  caught  by  the  thirteenpence  a  day,  and 
after  all  the  expensive  driUing  that  is  to  make  them  proper 
food  for  powder,  herded  together  like  beasts  in  a  stall,  till, 
except  under  strong  coercion,  the  beast  nature  is  apt  to  get 
uppermost,  and  no  wonder.  I  must  not  think  of  rest  till  I 
have  left  no  stone  unturned  for  the  furtherance  of  this 
scheme  concerning  my  poor  fellows. 

And  yet,  the  older  one  grows,  the  more  keenly  one  feels 
how  little  power  an  individual  man  has  for  good,  whatever 


A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE.  109 

he  may  have  for  evil.  At  least,  this  is  the  suggestion  of  a 
morbid  spirit,  after  aiming  at  every  thing  and  doing  almost 
nothing,  which  seemed  the  brief  catalogue  of  my  week's 
labor  last  night. 

People  are  so  slow  to  join  in  any  reformatory  schemes. 
They  will  talk  enough  of  the  need  for  it,  but  they  will  not 
act ;  it  is  too  much  trouble.  Most  men  are  engrossed  in 
their  own  private  concerns,  business,  amusements,  or  am- 
bitions. It  is  mcredible,  the  climculty  I  had  in  hunting  up 
some  who  were  the  most  active  agents  of  good  in  the  Crim- 
ea ;  and  of  these,  how  few  could  be  convinced  that  there 
was  any  thing  needed  to  be  done  at  home ! 

At  the  Horse  Guards,  where  my  face  must  be  as  familiar 
as  that  of  the  clock  on  the  quadrangle  to  those  gentleman- 
ly young  clerks,  no  attention  was  wanting  but  that  of  fur- 
thering my  business.  However,  the  time  was  not  altogether 
wasted,  as  in  various  talks  with  former  companions,  whom 
I  there  by  chance  waylaid,  ideas  were  thro^oi  out  that  may 
be  brought  to  bear  in  different  quarters.  And,  as  always 
happens,  from  some  of  the  very  last  quarters  where  any 
thing  was  to  be  expected,  the  vf armest  interest  and  assist- 
ance came. 

Likewise — and  this  forms  the  bright  spot  in  a  season  not 
particularly  pleasant — during  my  brief  stay  in  London,  the 
first  for  many  years,  more  than  one  familiar  face  has  come 
across  me  out  of  far  back  times,  Avith  a  welcome  and  re- 
membrance, the  warmth  and  heartiness  of  which  both  sur- 
prised and  cheered  me. 

Among  those  I  met  on  Thursday  was  an  old  colonel, 
under  whom  I  went  out  on  my  first  voyage  as  assistant- 
surgeon,  twelve  years  ago.  He  stopped  me  in  the  Mall, 
addressing  me  by  name ;  I  had  almost  forgotten  his,  till 
his  cordial  greeting  brought  it  to  my  mind.  Then  we  fell 
to  upon  many  mutual  questions  and  reminiscences. 

He  said  that  he  should  have  known  me  any  Avhere,  though 
I  was  altered  a  good  deal  in  some  respects. 

"All  for  the  bettter,  though,  my  boy — beg  pardon.  Doc- 
tor— but  you  were  such  a  shp  of  a  lad  then.  Thought  we 
should  have  had  to  throw  you  overboard  before  the  voy- 
age was  half  over,  but  you  cheated  us  all,  you  see ;  and, 
'pon  my  life,  hard  as  you  must  have  been  at  it  since  then, 
you  look  as  if  you  had  many  years  more  of  work  m  you 

yet." 

I  told  him  I  hoped  so,  which  I  do,  for  some  things ;  and 


110  A   LIFE    FOE    A   LIFE. 

then,  in  answer  to  his  friendly  questions,  I  entered  into  the 
business  which  had  brought  nie  to  London. 

The  good  colonel  was  brimful  of  interest.  He  has  a 
warm  heart,  plenty  of  money,  and  thinks  that  money  can 
do  every  thing.  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  persuading 
him  that  his  check-book  would  not  avail  me  with  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, or  the  honorable  British  officers,  whom  I 
hoped  to  stii-  up  to  some  little  sympathy  with  the  men 
they  commanded. 

"  But  can't  I  help  you  at  all  ?  can't  my  son  neither  ? 
you  remember  Tommy,  who  used  to  dance  the  sailor's 
hornpipe  on  the  deck.  Such  a  dandy  young  fellow ;  got 
him  a  place  under  government ;  capital  berth,  easy  hours — 
eleven  till  four,  and  regular  work ;  the  whole  Times  to  read " 
through  daily.     Ha !  ha !  you  understand,  eh  ?" 

I  laughed  too,  for  it  was  a  pretty  accurate  description 
of  what  I  had  this  week  seen  in  government  offices ;  in- 
deed, in  public  offices  of  all  kinds,  where  the  labor  is  so 
largely  subdivided  as  to  be  in  the  responsible  hands  of  very 
few,  and  the  work  and  the  pay  generally  follow  in  an  op- 
posite ratio  of  progression.  In  the  present  instance,  from 
what  I  remember  of  him,  no  doubt  such  a  situation  would 
exactly  suit  Master  Tommy  Turton. 

His  father  and  I  stroUed  up  and  down  the  shiny  half- 
dried  pavement  tiU  the  street  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the 
club  windows  began  ta  brighten  and  glow. 

"You'n  dine  with  me,  of  course — not  at  the  United 
Service — it's  my  day  with  Tom  at  his  club,  the  New  Uni- 
versal—  capital  club,  too.  No  apologies — we'll  quarter 
ourselves  upon  Tommy;  he  wiH  be  delighted.  He's  ex- 
tremely proud  of  his  club ;  the  young  rogue  costs  me — ^it's 
impossible  to  say  what. Tom  costs  me  per  annum  over  and 
above  his  pay.  Yet  he  is  a  good  lad,  too — as  lads  go — 
holds  up  his  head  among  all  the  young  fellows  of  the  club, 
and  keeps  the  very  best  of  company." 

So  went  on  the  worthy  old  father — with  more,  which  I 
forget.  I  had  been  on  my  feet  all  day,  and  was  what 
women  call  "  tired,"  when  they  delight  to  wheel  out  arm- 
chairs and  push  warmed  slippers  under  wet  feet — at  least 
so  I  have  seen  done. 

London  club-Hfe  was  new  to  me;  nor  was  I  aware  that 
in  this  England,  this  "home" — words  which  abi'oad  we 
learn  to  think  synonymous  and  invest  with  an  inexpressi- 
ble charm — so  large  a  proportion  of  the  middle  classes  as- 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  Ill 

STime  by  choice  the  sort  of  life  which,  on  foreign  service, 
we  put  up  with  of  necessity ;  the  easy,  seliish  hfe  into  which 
a  male  community  is  prone  to  fall.  The  time-honored  United 
Service  I  was  acquainted  with,  but  the  New  Universal  was 
quite  a  dazzle  of  brilhant  plate,  a  palace  of  upholstery.  Tom 
had  not  come  in,  but  his  father  showed  me  over  his  domains 
with  considerable  pride. 

"  Yes,  this  is  how  we  live — he  at  his  club,  and  I  at  mine. 
We  have  two  tidy  bedrooms,  somewhere  or  other,  hard 
by,  and  that's  all.  A  very  johy  life,  I  assure  you,  if  one 
hasn't  the  gout  or  the  blues ;  we  have  kept  it  ever  since 
the  poor  mother  died  and  Henrietta  married.  I  sometimes 
tell  Tom  he  ought  to  settle ;  but  he  says  it  would  be  slow, 
and  he  can't  afford  it.     Halloo !  here's  the  boy." 

Tom — a  "boy"  six  feet  high,  good-looking,  and  well- 
dressed,  after  the  exact  pattern  of  a  few  dozen  more,  whom 
we  had  met  strolling  arm-in-arm  down  Pall-Mail — greeted 
me  with  great  civility,  and  said  he  remembered  me  per- 
fectly, though  iny  unfortunately  quick  ears  detected  him 
asking  his  father,  aside,  "  where  on  earth  he  had  picked  up 
that  old  fogie?" 

We  dined  well,  and  a  good  dinner  is  not  a  bad  thing. 
As  a  man  gets  old  he  may  be  allowed  some  cheer — in  fact, 
he  needs  it.  Whether,  at  twenty-four,  he  requires  to  dine 
on  five  courses  and  half  a  dozen  kinds  of  wine,  is  another 
question.  But  Master  Tomi  was  my  host,  so  silence !  Per- 
haps I  am  becoming  "  an  old  fogie." 

After  dinner  the  colonel  opened  out  warmly  upon  my 
business,  which  his  son  evidently  considered  a  bore. 

"  He  really  did  not  understand  the  matter ;  it  was  not 
in  his  department  of  pubhc  business ;  the  governor  always 
thought  they  must  know  every  thmg  that  was  going  on, 
when,  in  truth,  they  knew  nothing  at  all.  He  should  be 
most  happy,  but  had  not  the  least  notion  what  he  could  do 
for  Doctor  Urquhart." 

Doctor  Urquhart  labored  to  make  the  young  gentleman 
understand  that  he  really  did  not  want  him  to  do  any  thing, 
to  which  Tom  listened  with  that  philosophical  laissez-faire^ 
kept  just  within  the  bounds  of  politeness,  that  we  of  an 
elder  generation  are  prone  to  find  fault  with.  At  last  an 
idea  struck  him. 

"Why,  father,  there's  Charteris — knows  every  thing 
and  every  body — would  be  just  the  man  for  you.  There 
he  is." 


112  A    LIFE   FOK    A    LIFE. 

And  lie  pointed  eagerly  to  a  gentleman,  who,  six  tables 
off,  lounged  over  his  wine  and  newspaper. 

That  .morning,  as  I  stood  talking  in  an  ante-room,  at  the 
Horse  Guards,  "this  gentleman  had  caught  my  notice,  lean- 
ing over  one  of  the  clerks,  and  enlivening  their  dullness  by 
making  a  caricature.  Now  my  phiz  was  quite  at  their 
service,  but  it  seemed  scarcely  fair  for  any  but  that  king 
of  caricature,  "  Punch,"  to  make  free  with  the  honest, 
weather-beaten  features  of  the  noble  old  veteran  who  was 
talking  with  me. 

So  I  just  intervened — not  involuntarily — ^between  the 
caricaturist  and  my — may  I  honor  myself  by  calling  him 
my  friend?  The  good  old  warrior  might  not  deny  it.  For 
Mr.  Charteris,  he  apparently  did  not  wish  to  own  my  ac- 
quaintance, nor  had  I  any  desire  to  resume  his.  We  pass- 
ed without  recognition,  as  I  w^ould  willingly  have  done 
now,  had  not  Colonel  Turton  seized  upon  the  name. 

"Tom's  right.  Charteris  is  the  very  man.  Has  enor- 
mous influence,  and  capital  connections,  though  between 
you  and  me,  Doctor,  calls  himself  as  poor  as  a  church- 
mouse." 

"  Five  hundred  a  year,"  said  Tom,  grimly.  "  Wish  I'd 
as  much!  Still,  he's  a  nice  fellow,  and  jolly  good  com- 
pany. Here,  waiter,  take  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Char- 
teris, and  will  he  do  us  the  honor  of  joining  us  ?" 

Mr.  Charteris  came. 

He  appeared  surprised  at  sight  of  me,  but  we  both  went 
through  the  ceremony  of  introduction  without  mentioning 
that  it  was  not  for  the  first  time.  And  during  the  whole 
conversation,  which  lasted  until  the  dinner  sounds  ceased, 
and  the  long,  bright,  splendid  dining-room  was  all  but  de- 
serted, we  neither  of  us  once  adverted  to  the  little  parlor 
where,  for  a  brief  five  minutes,  Mr.  Charteris  and  myself 
had  met,  some  weeks  before. 

I  had  scarcely  noticed  him  then  ;  now  I  did.  He  bore 
out  Tom's  encomium  and  the  colonel's.  He  is  a  highly  in- 
telligent, agreeable  person,  apparently  educated  to  the  ut- 
most point  of  classical  refinement.  The  sort  of  man  who 
would  please  most  women,  and  who,  being  intimate  in  a 
family  of  sisters,  would  with  them  involuntarily  become 
their  standard  of  all  that  is  admirable  in  our  sex. 

In  Mr.  Charteris  was  much  really  to  be  admired :  a  grace 
bordering  on  what  in  one  sex  we  call  sweetness,  in  the  other 
effeminacy.    Talent,  too,  not  original  or  remarkable,  but  in- 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  113 

dicating  an  evenly-cultivated,  elegant  mind.  Rather  narrow, 
it  might  be — all  about  him  was  naiTow,  regular ;  nothing  in 
the  slightest  degree  eccentric,  or  diverging  from  the  ordi- 
nary, being  apparently  possible  to  him.  A  pleasure-loving 
temperament,  disinchned  for  active  energy  in  any  direction 
— this  completed  my  impression  of  Mr.  Francis  Charteris. 

Though  he  gave  me  no  information ;  indeed,  he  seemed 
hke  my  young  friend  Tom  to  make  a  point  of  knowing  as 
little,  and  taking  as  slight  interest  as  possible  in  the  state 
machinery  of  which  he  formed  a  part — he  contributed  very 
considerably  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  evening.  It  was  he 
who  suggested  our  adjournment  to  the  theatre. 

"  Unless  Doctor  Urquhart  objects.  But  I  dare  say  we 
can  find  a  house  where  the  performance  trenches  on  none 
of  the  ten  commandments,  about  which,  I  am  aware,  he  is 
rather  particular." 

"Oh,"  cried  Tom,  '"Thou  shalt  not  steal'  from  the 
French;  and  'Thou  shalt  do  no  murder'  on  the  queen's 
English,  are  the  only  commandments  indispensable  on  the 
stage.     Come  away,  father." 

"  You're  a  sad  dog,"  said  the  father,  shaking  his  fist  at 
him,  with  a  dehghted  grin,  which  reminded  me  of  hornpipe- 


But  the  sad  dog  knew  where  to  find  the  best  bones  to 
pick,  and  by  no  means  dry,  either.  ISTow,  though  I  am  not 
a  book-man,  I  love  my  Shakspeare  well  enough  not  to  like 
him  acted — his  grand  old  flesh  and  blood  digged  up  and 
served  out  to  this  modern  taste  as  a  painted,  powdered, 
dressed-up  skeleton.  But  this  night  I  saw  him  "in  his 
habit  as  he  lived,"  presented  "  in  very  form  and  fashion  of 
the  time."  There  was  a  good  deal  of  show,  certainly,  it 
being  a  pageant  play,  but  you  felt  show  was  natural ;  that 
just  in  such  a  way  the  bells  must  have  rung,  and  the  peo- 
ple shouted,  for  the  living  Bolingbroke.  The  acting,  too, 
was  natural ;  and  to  me,  a  plain  man,  accustomed  to  hold 
women  sacred,  and  to  beheve  that  a  woman's  arms  should 
be  kept  solely  for  the  man  who  loves  her,  I  own  it  was  a 
satisfaction,  when  the  stage  queen  clung  to  the  stage  King 
Richard^  in  that  pitiful  parting,  where, 

"Bad  men,  ye  violate 
A  twofold  marriage,  'twixt  my  crown  and  me, 
And  then  between  me  and  my  married  wife," 

it  was  a  satisfaction,  I  say,  to  know  that  it  was  her  own 
husband  the  actress  was  kissing. 


114  A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

This  play,  which  Tom  and  the  colonel  voted  "  slow," 
gave  me  two  hours  of  the  keenest,  most  utterly  oblivious 
enjoyment ;  a  desideratum  not  easily  attainable. 

Mr.  Charteris  considered  it  fine  in  its  way ;  but,  after  all, 
there  was  nothing  like  the  Opera. 

"  Oh,  Charteris  is  opera-mad,"  said  Tom.  "  Every  sub- 
scription-night, there  he  is,  wedged  in  the  crowd  at  the 
horrid  little  passage  leading  out  of  the  Haymarket — among 
a  knot  of  his  cronies,  who  don't  mind  making  martyrs  of 
themselves  for  a  bit  of  tootle-te-tooing,  a  kick-up,  and  a 
twirl.     Well,  I'm  not  fond  of  music." 

"  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Charteris,  dryly. 

"And  of  looking  at  pretty  women,  too,  eh,  my  dear 
fellow?" 

"  Certainly." 

And  here  he  diverged  to  a  passing  criticism  on  the  pret- 
ty women  in  the  boxes  round  us :  who  were  not  few.  I 
observed  them,  also — for  I  notice  women's  faces  more  than 
I  was  wont — ^but  none  were  satisfactory,  even  to  the  eye. 
They  all  seemed  over-conscious  of  themselves  and  their 
looks,  except  one  small  creature,  in  curls,  and  a  red  mantle, 
about  the  age  of  the  poor  wounded  Russ,  who  might  have 
been  my  own  little  adopted  girl,  by  this  time,  if  she  had 
not  died. 

I  wish,  sometimes,  she  had  not  died.  My  life  would  have 
been  less  lonely,  could  I  have  adopted  that  child. 

There  may  be  more  beauty — I  have  heard  there  is — in 
the  upper  class  of  Englishwomen  than  in  any  race  of 
women  on  the  globe.  But  a  step  lower  m  rank,  less 
smoothly  cosmopolitan,  more  provincially  and  honestly 
Saxon;  reserved,  yet  frank;  simple,  yet  gay;  would  be 
the  Englishwoman  of  one's  heart.  The  man  who  dare 
open  his  eyes,  fearlessly,  to  the  beauties  of  such  a  one — 
seek  her  in  her  virtuous  middle-class  home,  ask  her  of  a 
proud  father  and  mother,  and  then  win  her,  and  take  her 
joyfully,  to  sit  by  his  happy  hearth,  a  wife,  matron, 
mother — 

I  forget  how  that  sentence  was  to  have  ended ;  however, 
it  is  of  hitle  consequence.  It  was  caused  partly  by  reflec- 
tion on  this  club-life,  and  another  darker  side  of  it,  of  which 
I  caught  some  glimpse  when  I  was  in  London. 

We  finished  the  evening  at  the  theatre  pleasantly.  In 
the  sort  of  atmosphere  we  were  in,  harmless  enough,  but 
glaring,  unquiet,  and  unhome-like,  I  was  scarcely  surprised 


A   LIFE   FOE    A  LIFE.  115 

that  Mr.  Charteris  did  not  once  name  the  friends  at  whose 
honse  I  first  met  him;  indeed,  he  seemed  to  avoid  the 
slightest  approach  to  the  subject.  Only  once,  as  we  were 
pushing  together,  side  by  side,  into  the  cool  night  air,  he 
asked  me,  in  a  low,  hurried  tone,  if  I  had  been  to  Rock- 
mount  lately  ?  He  had  heard  I  was  present  at  the  mar- 
riage. 

I  believe  I  made  some  remark  about  his  absence  bemg 
much  regretted  that  day. 

"  Yes — yes.  Shall  you  be  there  soon  ?"  The  question 
was  put  with  an  anxiety  which  my  answer  in  the  negative 
evidently  relieved. 

"  Oh,  then,  I  need  send  no  message.  I  thought  you 
were  very  intimate.  A  charming  family — a  very  charming 
family," 

His  eyes  were  wandering  to  some  ladies  of  fashion  who 
had  recognised  him — whom  he  put  into  their  carriage  with 
that  polite  assiduity  which  seems  an  instinct  with  him,  and 
in  the  crowd  we  lost  sight  of  Mr.  Charteris. 

Twice  afterward  I  saw  him;  once  driving  in  the  park, 
with  two  ladies  in  a  coroneted  equipage  ;  and  again,  walk- 
ing in  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon  down  Kensington  Road. 
This  time  he  started,  gave  me  the  slightest  recognition 
possible,  and  walked  on  faster  than  ever.  He  need  not 
have  feared :  I  had  no  wish  or  intention  of  resuming  our 
acquaintance.  The  more  I  hear  of  him,  the  more  increases 
my  sm-prise — ^nay,  even  not  immixed  with  anxiety — at  his 
position  in  the  family  at  Rockmount. 

Hs  ^  H«  *  ♦  *  * 

Here  I  was  suddenly  called  out  to  a  bad  accident  case, 
some  miles  across  the  country;  whence  I  have  only  re- 
turned in  time  for  bed. 

It  was  impossible  to  do  any  thing  for  the  poor  fellow ; 
one  of  Granton's  laborers,  who  knew  me  by  sight.  I 
could  only  wait  till  all  was  over,  and  the  widow  a  little 
composed. 

At  her  urgent  request,  I  sent  a  note  to  Rockmount,  hard 
by,  begging  Miss  Johnston  would  let  her  know  if  there 
had  been  heard  any  thing  of  Lydia — a  daughter,  once  in 
service  with  the  Johnstons,  afterward  in  London — now — 
as  the  poor  old  mother  moujnfully  expressed  it — "  gone 
wrong." 

To  my  surprise,  Miss  Johnston  answered  the  message  in 
person,  and  a  most  painful  conversation  ensued.     She  is  a 


116  A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE. 

good  woman — no  doubt  of  that ;  but  she  is,  as  Treherne 
once  said  of  her  father,  "  as  sharp  as  a  needle  and  as  hard 
as  a  rock." 

It  being  ah'eady  dark,  of  course  I  saw  her  safe  back  to 
her  own  gate.  She  informed  me  that  the  family  were  all 
quite  Avell,  which  was  the  sole  conversation  that  passed 
between  us,  except  concerning  the  poor  dead  laborer, 
James  Cartwright,  and  his  family,  of  whom,  save  Lydia, 
she  spoke  compassionately,  saying  they  had  gone  through 
much  trouble. 

Walking  along  by  her  side,  and  trying  to  find  a  cause 
for  the  exceeding  bitterness  and  harshness  she  had  evi- 
denced, it  struck  me  that  this  lady  was  herself  not  ignorant 
of  trouble. 

I  left  her  at  the  gate  under  the  bush  of  ivy.  Through 
the  bars  I  could  see,  right  across  the  wet  garden,  the  light 
streaming  from  the  hall  door. 

ISTow  to  bed,  and  to  sleep,  if  this  head  will  allow ;  it 
has  been  rather  unmanageablB  lately,  necessitating  careful 
watching,  as  will  be  the  case  till  there  is  nothing  here  but 
an  empty  skull. 

If  only  I  could  bring  this  barrack  matter  to  a  satisfac- 
tory start,  from  which  good  results  might  reasonably  be 
expected,  I  would  at  once  go  abroad.  Any  where — it  is 
all  the  same.  A  rumor  is  afloat  that  we  may  soon  get  the 
route  for  the  East,  or  China ;  which  I  could  be  well  content 
with,  as  my  next  move. 

Far  away — ^far  aAvay ;  with  thousands  of  miles  of  tossing 
sea  between  me  and  this  old  England  ;  far  away  out  of  all 
sight  or  remembrance.     So  best. 

E"ext  time  I  call  on  Widow  Cartwright  shall  be  after 
dark,  when,  without  the  slightest  chance  of  meeting  any 
one,  it  will  be  easy  to  take  a  few  steps  farther  up  the  vil- 
lage. There  is  a  cranny  in  one  place  in  the  wall,  whence 
I  know  one  can  get  a  very  good  view  of  the  parlor  win- 
dow, where  they  never  close  the  shutters  till  quite  bed- 
time. 

And,  before  our  regiment  leaves,  it  will  be  right  I  should 
call — to  omit  this  would  hardly  be  civil,  after  all  the  hos- 
pitality I  have  received.  So  I  will  call  some  wet  day, 
when  they  are  not  likely  to  be  out — when,  probably,  the 
younger  sister  will  be  sitting  at  her  books  up  stairs  in  the 
attic,  which  she  told  me  she  makes  her  study,  and  gets 
out  of  the  way  of  visitors.     Perhaps  she  will  not  take  the 


A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE.  117 

trouble  to  come  down.     Not  even  for  a  shake  of  the  hand 
and  a  good-by- — goodi-hj  forever. 

Oh,  mother !  imknown  mother — who  must  have  surely- 
loved  my  father ;  Avell  enough,  too,  to  leave  all  friends,  and 
follow  him,  a  poor  lieutenant  of  a  marching  regiment,  up 
and  down  the  world— if  I  had  but  died  when  you  brought 
me  into  this  same  troublesome  world,  how  much  it  would 
have  saved! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HEE    STOET. 

Just  finished  my  long  letter  to  Lisabel,  and  lingered 
over  the  direction,  "  Mrs.  Treherne,Treherne  Court." 

How  strange  to  thmk  of  our  Lisa  as  mistress  there. 
Which  she  is  in  fact,  for  Lady  Treherne,  a  mild,  elderly 
lady,  is  wholly  engrossed  in  tending  Sii*  Wilham,  who  is 
very  infirm.  The  old  people's  rule  seems  merely  nominal 
— it  is  Lisabel  and  Augustus  who  reign.  Their  domain  is 
a  perfect  palace — and  what  a  queen  Miss  Lis  must  look 
therein!  How  well  she  will  maintain  her  position,  and 
enjoy  it  too.  In  her  case,  are  no  poetical  sufiermgs  from 
haughty  parents,  delighted  to  crush  a  poor  daughter-in- 
law 

"  With  the  burden  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born." 

Already  they  both  hke  her  and  are  proud  of  her,  which  is 
not  surprising.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a  more  beau- 
tiful creature  than  my  sister  Lisa  when,  on  her  way  to 
Treherne  Court,  she  came  home  for  a  day. 

Home !  I  forget,  it  is  not  her  home  now.  How  strange 
this  must  have  been  to  her,  if  she  thought  about  it.  Pos- 
sibly she  did  not,  being  never  given  to  sentiment.  And, 
though  with  us  she  was  not  the  least  altered,  it  was  amus- 
ing to  see  how,  to  every  body  else,  she  appeared  quite  the 
married  lady ;  even  with  Mrs.  Granton,  who,  happening  to 
call  that  day,  was  delighted  to  see  her,  and  seems  not  to 
cherish  the  smallest  resentment  in  the  matter  of  "  my  Col- 
in." Very  generous — for  it  is  not  the  good  old  lady's  first 
disappointment — she  has  been  going  a  wooing  for  her  son 
ever  since  he  was  one-and-twenty,  and  has  not  found  a 
daughter-in-law  yet. 


118  A    LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Colin,  too,  conducted  himself  witli  the  utmost  sangfroid ; 
and  when  Augustus,  Avho  is  beaming  with  benevolence  to 
the  whole  human  race,  invited  him  to  escort  his  mother, 
Penelope,  and  me,  on  our  first  visit  to  Treherne  Court,  he 
accepted  the  invitation  as  if  it  were  the  pleasantest  in  the 
world.  Truly,  if  women's  hearts  are  as  impressionable  as 
Avax,  men's  are  as  tough  as  gutta-percha.  Talk  of  break- 
ing them — faugh ! 

I  hope  it  indicates  no  barbarity  on  my  part  if  I  confess 
that  it  would  have  raised  my  opinion  of  him,  and  his  sex 
in  general,  to  have  seen  Colin  for  a  month  or  so,  at  least, 
wholesomely  miserable. 

Lisabel  behaved  uncommonly  well  with  regard  to  him, 
and,  indeed,  in  every  way.  She  was  as  bright  as  a  May 
morning,  and  full  of  the  good  qualities  of  her  Augustus, 
whom  she  really  likes  very  much  after  her  fashion.  She 
will  doubtless  be  among  the  many  wives  who  become  ex- 
tremely attached  to  their  husbands  after  marriage.  To  my 
benighted  mind,  it  has  always  seemed  advisable  to  have  a 
slight  preference  before  that  ceremony. 

She  told  me,  with  a  shudder  that  was  altogether  natural 
and  undisguised,  how  glad  she  was  that  they  had  been 
married  at  once,  and  that  Augustus  had  sold  out,  for  there 
is  a  chance  of  the  regiment's  being  soon  ordered  on  for- 
eign service.  I  had  not  heard  of  this  before.  It  was  some 
surprise. 

Lisabel  was  very  afiectionate  to  me  the  whole  day,  and, 
in  going  away,  said  she  hoped  I  did  not  miss  her  much, 
and  that  I  should  get  a  good  husband  of  my  own  soon ;  I 
did  not  know  what  a  comfort  it  was. 

"  Somebody  to  belong  to  you — to  care  for  you — to  pet 
you — your  own  personal  property,  in  short — who  can't  get 
rid  of  you,  even  when  you're  old  and  ugly.  Yes,  I'm  glad 
I  married  poor  dear  Augustus-  And,  child,  I  hope  to  see 
you  married  also.  A  good  httle  thing  hke  you  Avould 
make  a  capital  wife  to  somebody.  Why,  simpleton,  I  de- 
clare she's  crying !" 

It  must  have  been  the  over-excitement  of  this  day ;  but 
I  felt  as  if,  had  I  not  cried,  my  temples  and  throat  would 
have  burst  with  a  choking  pam,  that  lasted  long  after  Lisa- 
bel was  gone. 

They  did  not  altogether  stay  more  than  four  hours. 
Augustus  talked  of  riding  over  to  the  camp,  to  see  his 
friend,  Doctor  Urquhart,  whom  he  has  heard  nothing  of 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  119 

since  the  -wedding-day ;  but  Lisabel  persuaded  him  against 
it.  Men's  friendship  with  one  another  is  worth  little, 
apparently. 

Penelope  here  said  she  could  answer  for  Doctor  Urqu- 
hart's  being  in  the  land  of  the  living,  as  she  had  met  him 
a  week  before  at  Cartwright's  cottage,  the  day  the  poor 
old  man  was  killed.  Why  did  she  not  tell  me  of  this  ? 
But  then  she  has  taken  such  a  prejudice  against  him,  and 
exults  so  over  what  she  calls  his  "rude  behavior  to  the 
family." 

It  always  seemed  to  me  very  foohsh  to  be  forever  de- 
fending those  whose  character  is  itself  a  sufficient  defense. 
If  a  false  word  is  spoken  of  a  friend,  one  must  of  course 
deny  it,  disprove  it.  But  to  be  incessantly  battling  with 
personal  prejudice  or  animosity,  I  would  scorn  it !  Ay,  as 
utterly  as  I  would  scorn  defending  myself  under  similar 
attacks.  I  think,  in  every  lesser  affection  that  is  worth  the 
name,  the  same  truth  holds  good  which  I  remember  bemg 
struck  "with  in  a  play,  the  only  play  I  ever  saw  acted.  The 
heroine  is  told  by  her  sister, 

' '  Katherine, 
You  love  this  man — defend  him." 

She  answers : 

' '  You  have  said, 
I  love  him.     That's  my  defense.     I'll  not 
Assert,  in  words,  the  truth  on  which  I've  cast 
The  stake  of  life.     I  love  him,  and  am  silent." 

At  least,  I  think  the  passage  ran  thus,  for  I  cut  it  out  of 
a  newspaper  afterward,  and  long  remembered  it.  "What 
an  age  it  seems  since  the  night  of  that  play,  to  which  Fran- 
cis took  us.  And  what  a  strange,  dim  dream  has  become 
the  impression  it  left ;  something  hke  that  I  always  have 
in  reading  of  Thekla  and  Max — of  love  so  true  and  strong 
— so  perfect  in  its  holy  strength,  that  neither  parting,  grief, 
nor  death  have  any  power  over  it.  Love  which  makes 
you  feel  that  once  to  have  possessed,  must  be  bhss  unut- 
terable, unahenable — better  than  all  happiness  or  prosperity 
that  this  world  could  give — better  than  any  thing,  in  the 
world  or  out  of  it,  except  the  love  of  God. 

I  sometimes  think  of  this  Katheriae  in  this  play,  when 
she  refuses  to  let  her  lover  barter  his  conscience  for  his  life, 
but  when  the  test  comes,  says  to  him  herself,  "  No — cUeP^ 
Also  of  that  scene  in  Wallenstein,  when  Thekla  bids  her 
lover  be  faithful  to  his  honor  and  his  country,  not  to  her — 


120  A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE. 

when,  just  for  one  minute,  he  holds  her  tight,  tight  in  his 
arms — Max,  I  mean.  Death  afterward  could  not  have 
been  so  very  hard. 

I  am  beginnmg  to  give  up — strange,  perhaps,  that  it 
should  have  lasted  so  long — ^my  belief  in  the  possible  hap- 
piness of  life.  Apparently,  people  were  never  meant  to  be 
happy.  Small  flashes  of  pleasantness  come  and  go ;  or  it 
may  be  that  in  some  few  lives  are  ecstatic  moments,  such 
as  this  I  have  been  thinking  of,  and  then  it  is  all  over. 
But  many  people  go  plodding  along  to  old  age,  in  a  dull, 
straight  road,  with  little  sorrow  and  no  joy.  Is  my  life  to 
be  such  as  this  ?  Probably.  Then  the  question  arises, 
what  am  I  to  do  with  it  ? 

It  sometimes  crosses  my  mind  what  Doctor  TJrquhart 
said,  about  his  life  being  "owed."  All  our  lives  are,  in 
one  sense :  to  ourselves,  to  our  fellow-creatures,  or  to  God ; 
or,  is  there  some  point  of  union  which  includes  all  three  ? 
K I  only  could  find  it  out ! 

Perhaps,  according  to  Colin  Granton's  lately  learned  doc- 
trine— I  know  whence  learned — it  is  the  having  something 
to  do.  Something  to  be,  your  fine  preachers  of  self-culture 
Vv^ould  suggest ;  but  self-culture  is  often  no  better  than 
idealized  egotism :  people  sick  of  themselves  want  some- 
thing to  do. 

Yesterday,  driving  with  papa  along  the  edges  of  the 
camp,  where  we  never  go  now,  I  caught  sight  of  the  slope 
where  the  hospital  is,  and  could  even  distinguish  the  poor 
fellows  sitting  in  the  sun,  or  lounging  about  in  their  blue 
hospital  clothes.     It  made  me  think  of  Smyrna  and  Scutari. 

No ;  while  there  is  so  much  misery  and  sin  in  the  world, 
a  man  has  no  right  to  lull  himself  to  sleep  in  a  paradise  of 
self-improvement  and  self-enjoyment;  in  which  there  is  but 
one  supreme  Adam,  one  perfect  specimen  of  humanity, 
namely  himself  He  ought  to  go  out  and  work — ^fight,  if 
it  must  be,  wherever  duty  calls  him.  jN^ay,  even  a  woman 
has  hardly  any  right,  in  these  days,  to  sit  still  and  dream. 
The  life  of  action  is  nobler  than  the  life  of  thought. 

So  I  keep  reasoning  with  myself  If  I  could  only  find  a 
good  and  adequate  reason  for  some  things  which  perplex 
me  sorely,  about  myself  and — other  people,  it  would  be  a 
great  comfort.  * 

To-day,  among  a  heap  of  notes  which  papa  gave  me  to 
make  candle-lighters  of,  I  found  this  note,  which  I  kept, 
the  handwriting  being  peculiar — and  I  have  a  few  crotchets 
about  handwriting. 


A  LIFE   rOR   A   LIFE.  121 

"  Dear  Sir, — Press  of  business,  and  other  unforeseen 
circumstances,  with  which  I  am  fettered,  make  it  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  accept  any  invitations  at  present.  I  hope  you 
will  beheve  that  I  can  never  forget  the  hospitalities  of  Rock- 
mount,  and  that  I  am  ever  most  gratefully 
"  Your  faithful  servant, 

"  Max  Urquhart." 

Can  he,  then,  mean  our  acquaintance  to  cease  ?  Should 
we  be  a  hinderance  in  his  busy,  useful  life — such  a  frivol- 
ous family  as  ours  ?  It  may  be  so.  Yet  I  fear  papa  will 
be  hurt. 

This  afternoon,  though  it  was  Sunday,  I  could  not  stay 
in  the  house  or  garden,  but  went  out,  far  upon  the  moor, 
and  walked  till  I  was  weary.  Then  I  sat  me  down  upon  a 
heather-bush,  all  in  a  heap,  my  arms  clasped  round  my 
knees,  trying  to  think  out  this  hard  question — what  is  to 
become  of  me ;  what  am  I  to  do  with  my  life  ?  It  lies  before 
me,  apparently  as  bleak,  barren,  and  monotonous  as  these 
miles  of  moorland — stretching  on  and  on  in  dull  undula- 
tions, or  dead  flats,  till  a  range  of  low  hills  ends  all !  Yet, 
sometimes,  this  wild  region  has  looked  quite  different.  I 
remember  describing  it  once — how  beautiful  it  was,  how 
breezy  and  open,  with  the  ever-changing  tints  of  the  moor, 
the  ever-shifting  and  yet  always  steadfast  arch  of  the  sky. 
To-day  I  found  it  all  colorless,  blank,  and  cold  ;  its  monot- 
ony almost  frightened  me.  I  could  do  nothing  but  crouch 
on  my  heather-bush  and  cry. 

Tears  do  one  good  'occasionally.  When  I  dried  mine, 
the  hot  weight  on  the  top  of  my  head  seemed  lighter.  If 
there  had  been  any  body  to  lay  a  cool  hand  there,  and  say, 
^'  Poor  child,  never  mind  !"  it  might  have  gone  away.  But 
there  was  no  one :  Lisa  was  the  only  one  who  ever  "  pet- 
ted" me. 

I  thought  I  would  go  home  and  write  a  long  letter  to 
Lisa. 

Just  as  I  was  rising  from  my  heather-bush — my  favorite 
haunt,  being  as  round  as  a  mushroom,  as  soft  as  a  velvet 
cushion,  and  hidden  by  two  great  furze-bushes  from  the 
road — I  heard  footsteps  approaching.  Having  no  mind  to 
be  discovered  in  that  gipsy  plight,  I  crouched  down  again. 

People's  footsteps  are  so  different,  it  is  often  easy  to  rec- 
ogTiize  them.  This  step,  J-  think  I  should  have  known  any 
where — quick,  regular,  determined ;  rather  hasty,  as  if  no 

F 


122  A   LIFE   FOK   A    LIFE. 

time  could  be  lost ;  as  if  it  wotild  never  "  let  the  grass 
grow  under  it,"  as  the  proverb  says.  Crouching  lower  yet, 
I  listened ;  I  heard  him  stop,  and  speak  to  an  old  woman, 
who  had  been  coming  up  the  road  toward  the  village.  No 
words  were  distinguishable,  but  the  voice,  I  could  not  have 
mistaken  it — it  is  not  like  our  English  voices. 

How  strange  it  is,  listening  to  footsteps  or  voices,  when 
the  owners  do  not  know  you  are  near  them.  Something 
like  being  a  ghost,  and  able  to  watch  them — perhaps  watch 
over  them — without  feeling  it  unnatural  or  wrong. 

He  stood  talking — I  ought  to  explain,  Doctor  Urquhart 
stood  talking — ^for  several  minutes.  The  other  voice,  by 
its  querulousness,  I  guessed  to  be  poor  Mrs.  Cartwright's ; 
but  it  softened  by  degrees,  and  then  I  heard  distinctly  her 
earnest  "  thank'ee.  Doctor — God  bless'ee,  sir,"  as  he  walk- 
ed'away,  and  vanished  over  the  slope  of  the  hill.  She  look- 
ed after  him  a  minute,  and  then,  turning,  toddled  on  her 
way. 

When  I  overtook  her,  which  was  not  for  some  time,  she 
told  me  the  whole  story  of  her  troubles,  and  how  good 
Doctor  Urquhart  has  been.  Also,  the  whole  story  about 
her  poor  daughter — at  least  as  much  as  is  known  about  it. 
Mrs.  Cartwright  thinks  she  is  still  somewhere  in  London, 
and  Doctor  Urquhart  has  promised  to  find  her  out,  if  he 
can.  I  don't  understand  much  about  these  sort  of  dread- 
ful things — ^Penelope  never  thought  it  right  to  tell  us :  but 
I  can  see  that  what  Doctor  Urquhart  has  said  has  given 
great  comfort  to  the  mother  of  unfortunate  Lydia. 

"Miss,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  the  tears  running 
down,  "the  doctor's  been  an  angel  of  goodness  to  me,  and 
there's  many  a  one  in  these  parts  as  can  say  the  same — 
though  he  be  only  a  stranger,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-mor- 
row, as  one  may  say.  Eh,  dear,  it'll  be  an  ill  day  for  many 
a  poor  body  when  he  goes." 

I  am  glad  I  saw  him — glad  I  heard  all  this.  Somehow, 
hearing  of  things  like  this  makes  one  feel  quieter. 

It  does  not  much  matter  after  all — ^it  does  not  indeed! 
I  never  wanted  any  body  to  think  aboiit  me,  to  care  for 
me,  half  as  much  as  somebody  to  look  up  to — to  be  satis- 
fied in — ^to  honor  and  reverence.     I  can  do  that  still ! 

Like  a  fool,  I  have  been  crying  again,  till  I  ought,  prop- 
erly, to  tear  this  leaf  out,  and  begin  afresh.  No,  I  will  not. 
Nobody  will  ever  see  it,  and  it  does  no  harm  to  any  human 
being. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  123 


"  God  bless  him !"  the  old  woman  said.  I  might  say 
something  of  the  like  sort  too ;  for  he  did  me  a  deal  of 
good ;  he  was  very  Mnd  to  me. 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

HEE   STOET. 

Papa  and  Penelope  are  out  to  dinner.  I  myself  was  out 
yesterday,  and  did  not  return  till  they  were  gone ;  so  I  sit 
up  for  them;  and,  meantime,  shall  amuse  myself  with  writ- 
ing here. 

The  last  date  was  Sunday,  and  now  it  is  only  Tuesday, 
but  milch  seems  to  have  happened  between.  And  yet  noth- 
ing really  has  happened  but  two  quiet  days  at  the  Cedars, 
and  one  gay  evening — or  people  would  call  it  gay. 

It  has  been  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood  for  weeks,  this 
amateur  concert  at  the  camp.  We  got  our  invitation,  of 
course ;  the  such  and  such  regiments  (I  forget  which ;  at 
least,  I  forget  one)  presenting  their  compliments  to  the 
Reverend  Wilham  Henry  and  the  IViisses  Johnston,  and're- 
questing  their  company.  But  papa  shook  his  head,  and 
Penelope  was  indifferent.  Then  I  gave  up  all  thoughts  of 
going,  if  I  ever  had  any. 

The  surprise  was  almost  pleasant  when  Mrs.  Granton, 
coming  in,  declared  she  would  take  me  herself,  as  it  was 
quite  necessary  I  should  have  a  httle  gayety  to  keep  me 
from. moping  after  Lisabel.     Papa  consented,  and  I  went. 

Driving  along  over  the  moors  was  pleasant,  too,  even 
though  it  snowed  a  httle.  I  found  myself  laughing  back 
at  Colin,  who  sat  on  the  box,  occasionally  turning  to  shake 
the  white  flakes  off  him,  hke  a  great  Polar  bear.  His  kind- 
ly, hearty  face  was  quite  refreshing  to  behold. 

I  have  a  habit  of  growing  attached  to  places,  independ- 
ently of  the  persons  connected  with  them.  Thus,  I  can  not 
imagine  any  time  when  it  would  not  be  an  enjoyment  to 
drive  up  to  the  hall  door  of  the  Cedars,  sweeping  round  in 
the  wide  curve  that  Colin  is  so  proud  of  making  his  car- 
riage wheels  describe ;  to  look  back  up  the  familiar  hill- 
side, where  the  winter  sun  is  shining  on  that  slope  of  trees ; 
then  run  into  the  house,  through  the  billiard-room,  and  out 
again  by  the  dining-room  windows,  on  to  the  broad  terrace. 
There,  if  there  is  any  sunshine,  you  will  be  sure  to  get  it ; 


124        -  A    LIFE    FOR    A   LIFE. 

any  wind,  it  will  blow  in  your  face ;  any  bit  of  color  or 
landscape  beauty,  you  will  catch  it  on  this  green  lawn ;  the 
grand  old  cedars,  the  distant  fir-woods,  lying  m  a  still  mass 
of  dark-blue  shadow,  or  standing  up,  one  by  one,  cut  out 
sharply  against  the  brilliant  west.  Whether  it  is  any  me- 
teorological peculiarity  I  know  not ;  but  it  seems  to  me  as 
if,  whatever  the  day  has  been,  there  is  always  a  fau'  sunset 
at  the  Cedars. 

I  love  the  place.  If  I  went  away  for  years — if  I  never 
saw  it  again — I  should  always  love  it  and  remember  it ; 
Mrs.  Granton  too,  for  she  seems  an  integral  part  of  the  pic- 
ture. Her  small,  elderly  figure  trotting  in  and  out  of  the 
rooms ;  her  clear  loud  voice — she  is  a  httle  deaf — along  the 
up-stair  passages ;  her  perpetual  activity — I  think  she  is 
never  quiet  but  when  she  is  asleep ;  above  all,  her  unvary- 
ing goodness  and  cheerfulness.  Truly  the  Cedars  would 
not  be  the  Cedars  without  my  dear  old  lady ! 

I  don't  think  she  ever  knew  how  fond  I  was  of  her,  even 
as  a  little  girl.  Nobody  could  help  it ;  never  any  body  had 
to  do  with  Mrs.  Granton  without  becommg  fond  of  her. 
She  is  almost' the  only  person  living  of  whom  I  never  heard 
any  one  speak  an  unkind  word,  because  she  herself  never 
speaks  an  ill  word  of  any  human  being.  Every  one  she 
knows  is  "the  kmdest  creature,"  "the  nicest  creature," 
"  the  cleverest  creature" — I  do  believe  if  you  presented  to 
her  Diabolus  himself,  she  would  only  call  him  "poor  crea- 
ture ;"  would  suggest  that  his  temper  must  have  been  ag- 
gravated by  the  unpleasant  place  he  had  to  live  in,  and 
set  about  some  plan  for  improving  his  complexion,  and-con- 
ceahng  his  horns  and  tail. 

At  dinner,  I  took  my  favorite  seat,  where,  seen  through 
this  greatest  of  the  three  windows,  a  cedar,  with  its  "  broad, 
green  layers  of  shade,"  is  intersected  by  a  beech,  still  faint- 
ly yellow,  as  I  have  seen  it,  autumn  after  autumn,  from  the 
same  spot.  It  seemed  just  like  old  times.  I  felt  happy,  as 
if  something  pleasant  were  about  to  happen,  and  said  as 
much. 

Mrs.  Granton  looked  delighted. 

"  I  am  sure,  my  dear,  I  hope  so ;  and  I  trust  we  shall  see 
you  here  very  often  indeed.  Only  think,  you  have  never 
been  since  the  night  of  the  ball.  What  a  deal  has  hap- 
pened between  now  and  then." 

I  had  already  been  thinking  the  same. 

It  must  be  curious  to  any  one  who,  like  our  Lisa,  had 


A  LIFE  FOE   A  LIFE.  125 

married  a  stranger  and  not  an  old  acquaintance,  to  analyze 
afterward  the  first  impressions  of  a  first  meeting,  most  like- 
ly brought  about  by  the  merest  chance.  Curious  to  try 
and  recall  the  face  you  then  viewed  critically,  carelessly,  or 
with  the  most  absolute  iudifterence — how  it  gradually  al- 
tered and  altered,  till  only  by  a  special  effort  can  memory 
reproduce  the  pristiAe  image,  and  trace  the  process  by 
which  it  has  become  what  it  is  now — a  face  by  itself,  its 
pecuharities  pleasant,  its  plainnesses  sacred,  and  its  beauties 
beautiful  above  aU  faces  in  the  world. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  Colin  was  turned  out,  that 
is  corporeally,  for  his  mother  talked  about  him  the  whole 
time  of  his  absence,  a  natural  weakness,  rather  honorable 
than  pardonable.  She  has  been  very  long  a  widow,  and 
never  had  any  child  but  Colin. 

During  our  gossip,  she  asked  me  if  we  had  seen  Doctor 
Urquhart  lately,  and  I  said  no. 

"  Ah !  that  is  just  like  liim.  Such  an  odd  creature.  He 
will  keep  away  for  days  and  weeks,  and  then  turn  up  as 
unexpectedly  as  he  did  here  yesterday.  By-the-by,  he  in- 
quired after  you,  if  you  were  better.  Colin  had  told  him 
you  were  ill." 

I  testified  my  extreme  surprise  and  denial  of  this. 

"  Oh,  but  you  looked  ill.  You  were  just  like  a  ghost  the 
day  Mrs.  Treherne  was  at  Rockmount — my  son  noticed  it. 
IsTay,  you  need  not  flush  jtip  so  angrily ;  it  was  only  my 
Colin's  anxiety  about  you — he  was  always  fond  of  his  old 
play-fellow." 

I  smiled,  and  said  his  old  play-fellow  was  very  much 
obhged  to  him. 

So  this  business  is  not  so  engrossing  but  that  Doctor 
Urquhart  can  find  time  to  pay  visits  somewhere.  And  he 
had  been  inquiring  for  me.  Still  he  might  have  made  the. 
inquiry  at  our  own  door.  Ought  people,  even  if  they  do 
lead  a  busy  life,  to  forget  ordinary  courtesy — accepting  hos- 
pitahty,  and  neglecting  it — cultivating  acquaintance,  and 
then  dropping  it  ?  I  think  not ;  all  the  respect  in  the  world  , 
can  not  make  one  put  aside  one's  common-sense  judgment 
of  another's  actions.  Perhaps  the  very  respect  makes  one 
more  tenacious  that  no  single  action  should  be  even  ques- 
tionable. I  did  think  then,  and  even  to-day  I  have  thought 
sometimes,  that  Doctor  IJrquhart  lias  been  somewhat  in 
the  wrong  toward  us  at  Rockmount.  But  as  to  acloiowl- 
edging  it  to  any  one  of  them  at  liome — never. 


126  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Mrs.  Grauton  discussed  him  a  little,  and  spoke  gratefully 
of  Colin's  obligations  to  him,  and  what  a  loss  it  would  be 
for  CoHn  when  the  regiment  left  the  camp. 

"  How  fortunate  that  your  brother-in-law  sold  out  when 
lie  did.  He  could  not  well  have  done  so  now,  when  there 
is  a  report  of  their  being  ordered  on  active  service  shortly. 
Cohn  says  we  are  hkely  to  have  waf  again,  but  I  do  hope 
not." 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

And  just  then  Colin  came  to  fetch  me  to  the  green-houses, 
to  choose  a  camelha  for  my  hair. 

Likely  to  have  war  again !  When  Mrs.  Granton  left  me 
to  dress,  I  sat  over  my  bedroom  fire,  thinkmg — I  hardly 
know  what.  All  sorts  of  visions  went  flitting  through  my 
mind — of  scenes  I  have  heard  talked  about,  in  hospital,  in 
battle,  on  the  battle-field  afterward.  Especially  one,  which 
Augustus  has  often  described,  when  he  woke  up,  stiff  and 
cold,  on  the  moonlight  plain,  from  under  his  dead  horse, 
and  saw  Doctor  Urquhart  standing  over  him. 

Colin  whistling  through  the  corridor,  Mrs.  Granton's 
lively  "  Are  you  ready,  my  dear  ?"  made  me  conscious  that 
this  would  not  do. 

I  stood  up,  and  dressed  myself  in  the  silver-gray  silk  I 
wore  at  the  ball ;  tried  to  stick  the  red  camellia  in  my  hair, 
but  the  buds  all  broke  off  under  my  fingers,  and  I  had  to 
go  down  without  it.  It  was  all  the  same.  I  did  not  much 
care.  However,  Colin  insisted  on  going  with  a  lantern  to 
hunt  for  another  flower,  and  his  mother  took  a  world  of 
pains  to  fasten  it  in,  and  make  me  look  "  pretty." 

They  were  so  kind— it  was  wicked  not  to  try  and  enjoy 
one's  self. 

Driving  along  in  the  sharp,  clear  twilight,  till  w^e  caught 
sight  of  the  long  lines  of  lamps  which  made  the  camp  so 
picturesque  at  nighttime,  I  found  that  compelling  one's 
self  to  be  gay  sometimes  makes  one  so. 

We  committed  all  sorts  of  blunders  in  tiie  dark — came 
across  a  sentry,  who  challenged  us,  and,  nobody  thmking 
of  giving  the  password,  had  actually  leveled  his  gun,  and 
was  proceeding  in  the  gravest  manner  to  do  his  duty  and 
fire  upon  us,  Avhen  our  coachman  shrieked,  and  Colin 
jumped  out,  which  he  had  to  do  a  dozen  times,  tramping 
the  snow  with  his  thin  boots,  to  his  mother's  great  uneasi- 
ness, and  laughing  all  the  time — before  we  discovered  the 
gqal  of  our  hopes — the  concert-room.     Almost  any  one  else 


A   LIFE   FOK    A   LIFE.  127 

would  have  gi'own  cross,  but  this  good  mother  and  son 
have  the  gayest  spirits  and  the  best  tempers  imaginable. 
The  present — the  present  is,  after  all,  the  only  thing  cer- 
tain.    I  began  to  feel  as  cheery  as  they. 

Giving  up  our  ticket  to  the  most  gentlemanly  of  ser- 
geants, we  entered  the  concert-room.  Such  a  blaze  of 
scarlet,  such  a  stirring  of  pretty  heads  between,  such  a 
murmur  of  merry  chat.  For  the  first  minute,  coming  out 
of  the  dark,  it  dazzled  me.  I  grew  sick  and  could  see 
nothing ;  but  when  we  were  quietly  seated  I  looked  round. 

There  were  many  of  our  neighbors  and  acquaintances 
whom  I  knew  by  sight  or  to  bow  to — and  that  was  all.  I 
could  see  every  corner  of  the  room — still  that  was  all. 

The  audience  seemed  in  a  state  of  exuberant  enjoyment, 
especially  if  they  had  a  bit  of  scarlet  beside  them,  which 
nearly  every  one  had,  except  ourselves. 

"  You'll  be  quite  ashamed  of  poor  Colin,  in  his  plain  black, 
Dora,  my  dear  ?" 

Not  very  likely,  as  I  told  her,  with  my  heart  warmly 
grateful  to  Colin,  who  had  been  so  attentive,  thoughtful, 
and  kind. 

Altogether  a  gay  and  pretty  scene.  Grave  persons  might 
possibly  eschew  it  or  condemn  it ;  but  no  !  a  large  liberal 
spirit  judges  all  things  liberally,  and  would  never  see  evil 
in  any  thing  but  sin. 

I  sat  enjoymg  all  I  could.  But  more  than  once  ghastly 
imaginations  intruded,  picturing  these  young  officers  other- 
where than  here,  with  their  merry  mustached  faces  pressed 
upon  the  reddened  grass,  their  goodly  limbs  lopped  and 
mangled;  or,  worse,  themselves,  their  kindly,  lightsome 
selves,  changed  into  what  soldiers  are,  must  be,  in  battle — 
fiends  rather  than  men,  bound  to  execute  that  slaughter 
which  is  the  absolute  necessity  of  war.  To  be  the  slain  or 
the  slayer — which  is  most  horrible  ?  To  think  of  a  familiar 
hand — brother's  or  husband's — dropping  down  powerless, 
nothmg  but  clay ;  or  of  clasping,  kissing  it,  returned  with 
red  blood  upon  it — the  blood  of  some  one  else's  husband  or 
brother ! 

To  have  gone  on  pondering  thus  would  have  been  dan- 
gerous. Happily,  I  stopped  myself  before  all  self-control 
was  gone. 

The  first  singer  was  a  slim  youth,  who,  facing  the  foot- 
lights with  an  air  of  fierce  determination,  and  probably 
more  inward  cowardice  than  he  would  have  felt  toward  a 


~128  A  LiFa  roR  a  life. 

regiment  of  Russians,  gave  ns,  in  a  ratlier  uncertain  tenor, 
Ms  resolution  to  "love  no  more,"  -wliich  was  vehemently 
applauded — and  vanished.  Next  came  "  The  Chough  and 
Crow,"  executed  very  independently,  none  of  the  vocalists 
being  agreed  as  to  their  "  opening  day."  Afterward,  the 
first  soprano,  a  professional,  informed  us  with  shrill  ex- 
pression, that — "  Oh,  yes,  she  must  have  something  to 
love ;"  which  I  am  sure  I  hope  she  had,  poor  body !  There 
was  a  duet,  of  some  sort,  and  then  the  primo  tenore  came 
on  for  an  Italian  song. 

Poor  youth !  a  fourth -rate  opera-singer  might  have  done 
it  better  ;  but  'tis  mean  to  criticise  ;  he  did  his  best ;  and„ 
when,  after  a  grand  roulade,  he  popped  down,,  with  all  his 
heart  and  lungs,  upon  the  last  note,  there  arose  a  cordial 
English  cheer,  to  which  he  responded  with  an  awkward 
duck  of  the  head,  and  a  delighted  smile  ^  very  unprofes- 
sional, but  altogether  pleasant  and  natural. 

The  evening  was  now  half  over.  Mrs.  Granton  thought 
I  was  looking  tired,  and  Colin  wrapped  my  feet  up  m  his 
fur  coat,  for  it  was  very  cold.  They  were  afraid  I  was  not 
enjoying  myself,  so  I  bent  my  whole  appreciative  faculties 
to  the  comical-faced  young  officer  who  skipped  forward, 
hugging  his  violin,  which  he  played  with  such  total  self- 
oblivious  enjoyment  that  he  was  the  least  nervous  and  the 
most  successful  of  all  the  amateurs ;  the  timid  young  officer 
with  the  splendid  bass  voice,  who  was  always  losing  his 
place  and  putting  his  companions  out;  and  the  solemn 
young  officer  who  marched  up  to  the  piano-forte  as  though 
it  were  a  redan,  and  pounded  away  at  a  heavy  sonata  as  if 
feehng  that  England  expected  him  to  do  his  duty ;  which 
he  did,  and  was  dehberately  retreating,  when,  in  that  free- 
and-easy  way  with  which  audience  and  stage  intermingled, 
some  one  called  him : 

"  Ansdell,  you're  wanted !" 

"  Who  wants  me  ?" 

"  IJrquhart."  At  least  I  was  almost  sure  that  was  the 
name. 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  of  singing  and  playing; 
then  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  with  a  full  chorus  and  mili- 
tary band.  That  grand  old  tune  is  always  exciting ;  it  was 
so,  especially,  here  to-night. 

Likely  to  have  war.  If  so,  a  year  hence,  where  might 
be  all  these  gay  young  fellows,  whispering  and  ffirting  with 
pretty  girls,  walked  about  the  room  by  proud  mothers  and 


A  LIPE   FOE   A   LIFE.  129 

sisters  ?  I  never  thought  of  it,  never  nnderstood  it,  till 
now — I  who  used  to  ridicule  and  despise  soldiers !  These 
mothers — these  sisters !  they  might  not  have  felt  it  for 
themselves,  hut  my  heart  felt  bursting.    I  could  hardly  stand. 

We  were  some  time  hi  getting  out  to  the  door  through 
the  long  Ihie  of  epaulets  and  swords,  the  owners  of  which 
— I  beg  their  pardon,  but  can  not  help  saying  it — were  not 
too  civil ;  until  a  voice  behind  cried : 

"  Do  make  way  there — how  do  you  expect  those  ladies 
to  jDush  past  you  ?" 

And  a  courteous  helping  hand  was  held  out  to  Mrs. 
Granton,  as  any  gentleman  ought  to  any  lady — especially 
an  old  lady. 

"  Doctor,  is  that  you  ?  What  a  scramble  this  is !  jN'ow, 
will  you  assist  my  young  friend  here  ?" 

Then — and  not  tUl  then,  I  am  positive — he  recognized 
me. 

Something  has  happened  to  him — something  has  altered 
him  A^ery  much.  I  felt  certain  of  that  on  the  very  first 
ghmpse  I  caught  of  his  face.  It  shocked  me  so  that  I  never 
said  "  how  d'ye  do  ?"  I  never  even  put  out  my  hand. 
Oh,  that  I  had ! 

He  scarcely  spoke,  and  we  lost  him  hi  the  crowd  almost 
immediately. 

There  was  a  great  confusion  of  carriages.  Colin  ran 
hither  and  thither,  but  could  not  find  ours.  Some  minutes* 
after,  we  were  stiU  out  hi  the  bitter  night ;  Mrs.  Granton 
talking  to  somebody,  I  standing  by  myself.  I  felt  very 
desolate  and  cold. 

"  How  long  have  you  had  that  cough  ?" 

I  knew  who  it  was,  and  tm^ned  round.  We  shook 
hands. 

"  You  had  no  business  out  here  on  such  a  night.  Why 
did  you  come  ?" 

Somehow,  the  sharpness  did  not  ofiend  me,  though  it 
was  rare  in  Doctor  tlrquhart,  who  is  usually  extremely 
gentle  in  his  way  of  speech. 

I  told  him  my  cough  was  nothing — it  was  indeed  as 
much  nervousness  as  cold,  though,  of  course,  I  did  not 
confess  that — and  then  another  fit  came  on,  leaving  me  all 
shakhig  and  trembling. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  come :  is  there  nobody  to  take 
better  care  of  you,  child  ?  iN'o — don't  speak.  You  must 
submit,  if  you  please." 

F  2 


130  A    LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

He  took  off  a  plaid  he  had  about  hun,  and  wrapped  me 
up  in  it,  close  and  warm.  I  resisted  a  little,  and  then 
yielded. 

"  You  must !" 

What  could  one  do  but  yield  ?  Protesting  again,  I  was 
bidden  to  "  hold  my  tongue." 

"  IvTever  mind  me !  I  am  used  to  all  weathers ;  I'm  not  a 
little  dehcate  creature  hke  you." 

I  said,  laughing,  I  was  a  great  deal  stronger  than  he  had 
any  notion  of — ^but  as  he  had  begun  our  acquaintance  by 
taking  professional  care  of  me,  he  might  just  as  well  con- 
tinue it ;  and  it  certainly  was  a  little  colder  here  than  it 
was  that  night  at  the  Cedars. 

"Yes." 

Here  Colin  came  up,  to  say  "  we  had  better  walk  on  to 
meet  the  carriage,  rather  than  wait  for  it."  He  and  Doc- 
tor Urquhart  exchanged  a  few  words,  th"fen  he  took  his 
mother  on  one  arm — good  Colin,  he  never  neglects  his  old 
mother — and  offered  me  the  other. 

"  Let  me  take  care  of  Miss  Theodora,"  said  Doctor  Urqu- 
hart, rather  decidedly.     "  Will  you  come  ?" 

I  am  sure  he  meant  me  to  come.  I  hope  it  was  not 
rude  to  Colin,  but  I  could  not  help  coming— I  could  not 
help  taking  his  arm.  It  was  such  a  long  time  since  we  had 
met. 

But  I  held  my  tongue,  as  I  had  been  bidden ;  indeed, 
nothing  came  into  my  head  to  say.  Doctor  Urquhart 
made  only  one  observation,  and  that  not  particularly  strik- 
ing: 

"  What  sort  of  shoes  have  you  got  on  ?" 

"Thick  ones." 

"That  is  right.  You  ought  not  to  trifle  with  your 
health." 

Why  should  one  be  afraid  of  speaking  the  truth  right 
out,  when  a  word  would  often  save  so  much  of  misunder- 
'  standing,  doubt,  and  pain  ?  Why  should  one  shrink  from 
being  the  first  to  say  that  word  when  there  is  no  wrong  in 
it,  when  in  all  one's  heart  there  is  not  a  feeling  that  one 
need  be  ashamed  of  either  before  any  human  being,  or,  I 
hope,  before  God  ? 

I  determined  to  S]3eak  out. 

"Doctor  Urquhart,  why  have  you  never  been  to  see  us 
since  the  wedding  ?     It  has  grieved  papa." 

My  candor  must  have  surprised  him;  I  felt  him  start. 


A   LIFE    FOE   A   LIFE.  131 

When  he  replied,  it  was  in  that  pecuhar  nervous  tone  I 
know  so  well,  which  always  seems  to  take  away  my  nerv- 
ousness, and  makes  me  feel  that  for  the  moment  I  am  the 
stronger  of  the  two. 

"  I  am  very  sorry.  I  would  not  on  any  account  grieve 
your  papa." 

"  Will  you  come,  then,  some  day  this  week  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  can  not  promise." 

A  possibility  struck  me. 

"  Papa  is  rather  pecuhar.  He  vexes  people  sometimes, 
when  they  are  not  thoroughly  acquainted  with  him.  Has 
he  vexed  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"  I  assure  you,  no." 

After  a  little  hesitation,  determined  to  get  at  the  truth, 
I  asked, 

"  Have  I  vexed  you  ?" 

"You!     What  an  idea!" 

It  did  seem  at  this  moment  preposterous,  almost  absurd. 
I  could  have  laughed  at  it.  I  beheve  I  did  laugh.  Oh, 
when  one  has  been  angry  or  grieved  with  a  friend,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  the  cloud  clears  off — one  hardly  knows  how  or 
why,  but  it  certainly  is  gone,  perhaps  never  existed  but  in 
imagination — what  an  infinite  relief  it  is !  How  cheerful 
one  feels,  and  yet  humbled;  ashamed,  yet  inexpressibly 
content.  So  glad,  so  satisfied  to  have  only  one's  self  to 
blame. 

I  asked  Doctor  Urquhart  what  he  had  been  doing  all 
this  whUe  ?  that  I  understood  he  had  been  a  good  deal 
engaged;  was  it  about  the  barrack  business  and  his  memo- 
rial ? 

"  Partly,"  he  said,  expressing  some  surprise  at  my  re- 
membering it.  , 

Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  referred  to  it.  And  yet 
that  is  not  a  fair  code  of  friendship.  When  a  friend  tells 
you  his  affairs,  he  makes  them  yours,  and  you  have  a  right 
to  ask  about  them  afterward.  I  longed  to  ask — ^longed  to 
know  all  and  every  thing ;  for  by  every  carriage  lamp  we 
passed  I  saw  that  his  face  was  not  as  it  used  to  be — that 
there  was  on  it  a  settled  shadow  of  pam,  anxiety,  almost 
anguish. 

I  have  only  known  Doctor  Urquhart  three  months,  yet 
in  those  three  months  I  have  seen  him  every  week,  often 
twice  and  thrice  a  week,  and,  owing  to  the  preoccupation 
of  the  rest  of  the  family,  almost  aU  his  society  has  devolved 


132  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

on  me.  He  and  I  have  often  and  often  sat  talking,  or,  in 
"playing  decorum"  to  Augustus  and  Lisabel,  walked  up 
and  down  the  garden  together  for  hours  at  a  time.  Also, 
from  my  brother-in-law,  always  most  open  and  enthusiastic 
on  the  subject,  I  have  heard  about  Doctor  Urquhart  nearly 
every  thing  that  could  be  told. 

AU  this  will  account  for  my  feeling  toward  him  after  so 
short  an  intimacy  as  people  usually  feel,  I  suppose,  after  a 
friendship  of  years. 

As  I  have  said,  something  must  have  happened  to  make 
such  a  change  in  him.  It  touched  me  to  the  quick.  Why 
not  at  least  ask  the  question,  which  I  should  have  asked  in 
a  minute  of  any  body  else,  so  simple  and  natural  was  it — 

"  Have  you  been  quite  well  since  we  saw  you  ?" 

"  Yes —     ISTo,  not  exactly.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  I  thought  you  looked  as  if  you  had  been  ill." 

"  Thank  you,  no ;  but  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  anx- 
ious business  on  hand." 

More  than  that  he  did  not  say,  nor  had  I  a  right  to  ask. 
No  right !  What  was  I,  to  be  wanting  rights — to  feel 
that  in  some  sense  I  deserved  them — that  if  I  had  them  I 
should  know  how  to  use  them ;  for  it  is  next  to  impossible 
to  be  so  sorry  about  one's  friends  without  having  also  some 
httle  power  to  do  them  good,  if  they  would  only  give  you 
leave. 

All  this  while  Colin  and  his  mother  were  nmning  hither 
and  thither  in  search  of  the  carriage,  which  had  disappear- 
ed again.  As  we  stood,  a  blast  of  moorland  wind  almost 
took  my  breath  away.  Doctor  Urquhart  turned,  and 
wrapped  me  up  closer. 

"What  must  be  done?  You  will  get  your  death  of 
cold,  and  I  can  not  shelter  you.     Oh !  if  I  could." 

Then  I  took  courage.  There  was  only  a  minute  more, 
perhaps,  and  the  news  of  threatened  war  darted  through 
my  memory  hke  an  arrow — perhaps  the  last  minute  we 
might  ever  be  together  in  all  our  lives.  My  life — ^I  did  not 
recollect  it  just  then ;  but  his,  busy  indeed,  yet  so  wander- 
ing, sohtary,  and  homeless — he  once  told  me  that  ours  was 
the  only  family  hearth  he  had  been  familiar  at  for  twenty 
years.  No,  I  am  sure  it  was  not  wrong  either  to  think 
what  I  thought  or  to  say  it. 

"Doctor  Urquhart,  I  wish  you  would  come  to  Rock- 
mount.  It  •would  do  you  good,  and  papa  good,  and  all  of 
us ;  for  we  are  rather  dull  now  Lisabel  is  gone.     Do  come." 


A   LITE   FOE   A   LIFE.  133 

I  waited  for  an  answer,  but  none  was  given.  K'o  excuse, 
or  aj)ology,  or  even  polite  acknowledgment.  Politeness! 
that  would  have  been  the  sharpest  unkindness  of  all. 

Then  they  overtook  us,  and  the  chance  was  over. 

Colin  advanced  to  my  side,  but  Doctor  Urquhart  put  me 
in  the  carriage  himself,  and  as  Colin  was  restoring  the 
plaid,  said,  rather  irritably, 

"  N"o,  no  ;  let  her  wrap  herself  in  it  going  home." 

N'ot  another  word  passed  between  us,  except  that,  as  I 
remembered  afterward,  just  before  they  came  up,  he  had 
said,  "  Good-by,"  hastily  adding  to  it,  "  God  bless  you." 

Some  people's  words — people  who  usually  exj^ress  very 
httle — rest  m  one's  inind  strangely.  Why  should  he  say 
"  God  bless  you  ?"     Why  did  he  call  me  "  child  ?" 

I  sent  back  his  plaid  by  Colin  next  morning,  with  a  m.es- 
sage  of  thanks,  and  that  "it  had  kept  me  very  warm,"  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  Doctor  Urquhart  again  ? 

And  yet  it  is  not  the  seeing  one's  friends,  the  having 
them  within  reach,  the  hearing  of  and  from  them,  which 
makes  them  ours — ^many  a  one  has  all  that,  and  yet  has 
nothing.  It  is  the  believing  in  them,  the  depending  on 
them,  assm-ed  that  they  are  true  and  good  to  the  core,  and 
therefore  could  not  but  be  good  and  true  toward  every 
body  else,  om'selves  included ;  ay,  whether  we  deserve  it  or 
not.  It  is  not  our  deserts  which  are  in  question;  it  is 
their  goodness,  which,  once  settled,  the  rest  follows  as  a 
matter  of  course.  They  would  be  untrue  to  themselves  if 
they  were  insincere  or  untrue  to  us.  I  have  half  a  dozen 
friends,  living  within  half  a  dozen  miles,  whom  I  feel  farther 
off  from  than  I  should  from  Doctor  Urquhart  if  he  hved  at 
the  Antipodes. 

He  never  uses  words  lightly.  He  never  would  have 
said  "  God  bless  you !"  if  he  had  not  specially  wished  God 
to  bless  me — ^poor  me!  a  fooHsh,  ignorant,  thoughtless 
child. 

Only  a  child— not  a  bit  better  nor  wiser  than  a  child ; 
full  of  all  kinds  of  childish  naughtinesses,  angers,  petu- 
lances, doubts — oh,  if  I  knew  he  was  at  this  minute  sitting 
in  our  parlor,  and  I  could  run  do^m  and  sit  beside  him,  tell 
him  all  the  hard  things  I  have  been  thinking  of  him  of  late, 
and  beg  his  pardon,  asking  hun  to  be  a  faithful  friend  to 
me,  and  heljD  me  to  grow  into  a  better  woman  than  I  am 
ever  Hkely  to  become — what  an  unutterable  comfort  it 
would  be ! 


134  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

A  word  or  two  more  about  my  pleasant  morning  at  the 
Cedars,  and  then  I  must  close  my  desk  and  see  that  the 
study-fire  is  all  right;  papa  likes  a  good  fire  when  he 
comes  home. 

There  they  are!  what  a  loud  ring!  it  made  me  jump 
from  my  chair.     This  must  be  finished  to-morrow,  when — 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HIS    STOET. 

I  ENDED  the  last  page  with  "  I  shall  write  no  more  here." 
It  used  to  be  my  pride  never  to  have  broken  a  promise  nor 
changed  a  resolution.  Pride!  What  have  I  got  to  do 
with  pride  ? 

And  resolutions,  fi^rsooth !  What,  are  we  omnipotent 
and  omniscient,  that  against  all  changes  of  circumstances, 
feelings,  or  events  we  should  set  up  our  paltry  resolutions, 
urge  them  and  hold  to  them,  in  spite  of  reason  and  convic- 
tion, with  a  tenacity  that  we  suppose  heroic,  god-like,  yet 
which  may  be  merely  the  blind  obstinacy  of  a  brute  ? 

I  will  never  make  a  resolution  again.  I  will  never  again 
say  to  myself,  "You,  Max  Urquhart,  in  order  to  keep  up 
that  character  for  virtue,  honor,  and  steadfastness,  which 
heaven  only  knows  whether  or  no  you  deserve,  ought  to  do 
so  and  so  ;  and,  come  what  will,  you  must  do  it."  Out  upon 
me  and  my  doings !  Was  I  singled  out  to  be  the  scape- 
goat of  the  world  ? 

It  is  my  intention  here  regularly  to  set  down,  for  certain 
reasons  which  I  may  or  may  not  afterward  allude  to,  cer- 
tain events  which  have  happened  without  any  act  of  mine, 
almost  without  any  volition,  if  a  man  can  be  so  led  on  by 
force  of  circumstances,  that  there  seems  only  one  course 
of  conduct  open  to  him  to  pursue.  Whither  these  circum- 
stances may  lead,  I  am  at  this  moment  as  utterly  ignorant 
as  on  the  day  I  was  born,  and  almost  as  powerless.  I  make 
no  determinations,  attempt  no  previsions,  follow  no  set  fine 
of  conduct ;  doing  only  from  day  to  day  what  is  expected 
of  me,  and  leaving  all  the  rest  to — is  it  ?  it  must  be — to 
God. 

The  sole  thing  in  which  I  may  be  said  to  exercise  any 
absolute  volition  is  in  writing  down  what  I  mean  to  write 
here ;  the  only  record  that  will  exist  of  the  veritable  me — 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  135 

Max  Urquliart — as  he  might  have  been  known,  not  to  peo- 
ple in  general,  but  to — any  one  who  looked  into  his  deep- 
est heart,  and  Avas  his  friend,  liis  beloved,  his  very  own. 

The  form  of  Imaginary  Correspondent  I  henceforward 
throw  aside.  I  am  perfectly  aware  to  whom  and  for  whom 
I  write,  yet  who,  in  all  human  probability,  will  never  read 
a  single  liue. 

Once,  an  officer  in  the  Crimea,  believing  himself  dying, 
gave  me  a  packet  of  letters  to  burn.  He  had  written  them, 
year  by  year,  under  every  change  of  fortune,  to  a  friend  he 
had,  to  whom  he  occasionally  wrote  other  letters  not  like 
these ;  which  were  never  sent,  nor  meant  to  be  sent,  during 
his  lifetime,  though  sometimes  I  fancy  he  dreamed  of  giv- 
ing them,  and  of  their  being  read,  smiling,  by  two  together. 
He  was  mistaken.  Circumstances  which  happen  not  rare- 
ly to  dreamers  like  him,  made  it  unnecessary,  nay,  impossi- 
ble for  them  to  be  delivered  at  all.  He  bade  me  burn  them 
— at  once — in  case  he  died.  In  doing  so  there  started  out 
of  the  embers,  clear  and  plain,  the  name.  But  the  fire  and 
I  told  no  tales ;  I  took  the  poker  and  buried  it.  Poor  fel- 
low !  He  did  not  die,  and  I  meet  him  still,  but  we  have 
never  referred  to  those  burned  letters. 

These  letters  of  mine  I  also  may  one  day  burn.  In  the 
mean  time,  there  shall  be  no  name  or  superscription  on 
them,  no  beginning  or  ending,  nor,  if  I  can  avoid  it,  any 
thmg  w^hich  could  particularize  the  person  to  whom  they 
are  written.  To  all  others  they  will  take  the  form  of  a 
mere  statement,  nothing  more. 

To  begin.  I  was  sitting  about  eleven  at  night  over  the 
fire  in  my  hut.  I  had  been  busy  all  day,  and  had  had  httle 
rest  the  night  before. 

It  was  not  my  intention  to  attend  our  camp  concert,  but 
■I  was  in  a  manner  compelled  to  do  so.  Ill  news  from  home 
reached  poor  young  Ansdell  of  ours,  and  his  colonel  sent 
me  to  break  it  to  him.  I  then  had  to  wait  about,  in  order 
to  see  the  good  colonel  as  he  came  out  of  the  concert-room. 
It  was,  therefore,  purely  by  accident  that  I  met  those 
friends  whom  I  afterward  did  not  leave  for  several  minutes. 

The  reason  of  this  delay  m  their  company  may  be  told. 
It  was  a  sudden  agony  about  the  uncertainty  of  life — young 
hfe,  fresh  and  hopeful  as  pretty  Laura  Ansdell's,  whom  I 
had  chanced  to  see  riding  through  the  North  Camp  not 
two  weeks  ago — and  now  she  was  dead.  Accustomed  as 
I  am  to  almost  every  form  of  mortality,  I  had  never  faced 


136  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

the  grim  fear  exactly  in  this  shape  before.  It  put  me  out 
of  myself  for  a  little  time. 

I  did  not  go  near  Granton  the  following  day,  but  received 
from  him  a  message  and  my  plaid.  She — the  lady  to  whom 
I  had  lent  it — was  "  quite  well."  No  more ;  how  could  I 
possibly  expect  any  more  ? 

I  was,  as  I  say,  sitting  over  my  hut  fire,  with  the  strangest 
medley  in  my  mind — rosy  Laura  Ansdell,  now  galloping 
across  the  moor,  now  lying  still  and  colorless  in  her  coffin ; 
and  another  face  about  the  same  age,  though  I  suppose  it 
would  not  be  considered  nearly  as  pretty,  v>^ith  the  scarlet 
hood  drawn  over  it,  pallid  with  cold,  yet  with  such  a  soft 
light  in  the  eyes,  such  a  trembling  sweetness  about  the 
mouth !  She  must  be  a  very  happy-minded  creature.  I 
hardly  ever  saw  her,  or  was  with  her  any  length  of  time, 
that  she  did  not  look  the  picture  of  content  and  repose. 
She  always  puts  me  in  mind  of  Dallas's  pet  song  when  we 
were  boys — "  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dunblane." 

"  She's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she's  bonnie, 
And  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain, 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  o'  feelin', 

Wha'd  blight  in  its  bud  the  sweet  Mower  o' Dunblane." 

I  say  amen  to  that. 

It  was — to  return  for  the  third  time  to  simple  narrative 
— somewhere  about  eleven  o'clock  when  a  man  on  horse- 
back stopped  at  my  hut  door.  I  thought  it  might  be  a 
summons  to  the  Ansdells,  but  it  was  not.  It  was  the 
groom  from  Rockmount  bringing  me  a  letter. 

Her  letter — her  little  letter !  I  ought  to  burn  it,  but,  as 
yet,  I  can  not,  and  where  it  is  kept  it  will  be  quite  safe. 
For  reasons  I  shall  copy  it  here. 

"  Deak  Sie, — My  father  has  met  with  a  severe  accident. 
Doctor  Black  is  from  home,  and  there  is  no  other  doctor  in 
the  neighborhood  upon  whom  we  can  depend.  Will  you 
pardon  the  liberty  I  am  taking  and  come  to  us  at  once? 
Yours  truly,  Theodora  Johi^stois"." 

There  it  lies,  brief  and  plain ;  a  firm  heart  guided  the 
shaking  hand.  Few  things  show  character  in  a  woman 
more  than  her  handwriting ;  this,  when  steady,  must  be 
remarkably  neat,  delicate,  and  clear.  I  did  well  to  put  it 
by ;  I  may  never  get  another  line. 

In  speaking  to  Jack,  I  learned  that  his  master  and  on© 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  137 

of  the  young  ladies  had  been  out  to  dinner ;  that  master 
had  insisted  on  driving  home  himself,  probably  from  Jack's 
incompetence,  but  he  was  sober  enough  now,  poor  lad ! 
that,  coming  through  the  fir  wood,  one  of  the  wheels  got 
fixed  in  a  deep  rut,  and  the  phaeton  was  overturned. 

I  asked,  was  any  one  hurt  besides  Mr.  Johnston  ? 

"  Miss  Johnston  was,  a  little." 

"  Which  Miss  Johnston  ?" 

"  Miss  Penelope,  sir." 

*':Nro  one  else?" 

"N'o,sir." 

I  had  evidence  enough  of  all  this  before,  but  just  then, 
at  that  instant,  it  went  out  of  my  mind  in  a  sudden  oppres- 
sion of  fear.  The  facts  of  the  case  gamed,  I  called  Jack  in 
to  the  fire,  and  went  into  my  bedroom  to  settle  with  my- 
self what  was  best  to  be  done. 

Indecision  as  to  the  matter  of  going  or  not  going  was, 
of  course,  impossible ;  but  it  was  a  sudden  and  startling- 
position  to  be  placed  in.  True,  I  could  avoid  it  by  plead- 
ing hospital  business,  and  sending  the  assistant  surgeon  of 
our  regiment,  who  is  an  exceedingly  clever  young  man,  but 
not  a  young  man  whom  women  would  like  in  a  sick-house, 
in  the  midst  of  great  distress  or  danger.  And  in  that  dis- 
tress and  danger  she  had  called  ujDon  one^  trusted  ')7%e. 

I  determined  to  go.  The  cost,  whatever  it  might  be, 
would  be  purely  personal,  and  in  that  brief  minute  I  count- 
ed it  all.  I  state  this,  because  I  wish  to  make  clear  that  no 
secondary  motive,  dream,  or  desire  prompted  me  to  act  as 
I  have  done. 

On  questioning  Jack  more  closely,  I  found  that  Mr.  John- 
ston had  fallen,  they  believed,  on  a  stone ;  that  he  had  been 
picked  up  senseless,  and  had  never  spoken  since.  This  in- 
dicated at  once  on  what  a  thread  of  chance  the  case  hung. 
Tlie  case — simply  that  and  no  more ;  as  to  treat  it  at  all  I 
must  so  consider  it.  I  have  saved  lives,  by  God's  blessing 
— this,  then,  must  be  regarded  rnerely  as  one  other  hfe  to 
be  saved,  if,  through  His  mercy,  it  were  granted  me  to  do 
it. 

I  unlocked  my  desk  and  put  her  letter  in  the  secret  draw- 
er ;  wi'ote  a  Ime  to  our  assistant-surgeon,  with  hosj^ital  or- 
ders, in  case  I  should  be  absent  part  of  the  next  day ;  took 
out  any  instruments  I  might  want;  then,  with  a  glance 
round  my  room,  and  an  involuntary  wondering  as  to  how 
and  when  I  might  return  to  it,  I  mounted  Jack's  horse  and 


138  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

rode  oif  to  Kockmoimt.  The  whole  had  not  occupied  fif- 
teen mmutes,  for  I  remember  looking  at  my  watch,  which 
stood  at  a  quarter  past  eleven. 

Hard  riding  makes  thinking  impossible ;  and,  indeed,  my 
whole  mind  was  bent  upon  not  missing  my  road  in  the  dark- 
ness. A  detour  of  a  mile  or  two,  one  lost  half-hour,  might, 
humanly  speaking,  have  cost  the  old  man's  life ;  for  in  simi- 
lar cases  it  is  generally  a  question  of  time. 

It  is  said  our  profession  is  that  which,  of  all  others,  most 
inclines  a  man  to  materialism.  I  never  found  it  so.  The 
first  time  I  ever  was  brought  close  to  death — ^but  that  train 
of  thought  must  be  stopped.  Since,  death  and  I  have  walk- 
ed so  long  together,  that  the  mere  vital  principle,  common 
to  all  living  creatures,  "the  life  of  a  beast  which  goeth 
downward,"  as  the  Bible  has  it,  I  never  think  of  confound- 
ing with  "the  soul  of  a  man  which  goeth  upward."  Quite 
distinct  from  the  Hfe,  dwelling  in  blood  or  breath,  or  at  that 
"vital  point"  which  has  been  lately  discovered,  sho wing- 
that  in  a  spot  the  size  of  a  pin's  head  resides  the  principle 
of  mortahty — quite  distinct,  I  say,  from  this  something, 
which  perishes  or  vanishes  so  mysteriously  from  the  dead 
friends  we  bury,  the  corpses  we  anatomize,  seems  to  me  the 
spirit,  the  ghost ;  which,  being  able  to  conceive  of  and  as- 
pire to,  must  necessarily  return  to,  the  one  Holy  Ghost,  the 
one  Eternal  Spirit,  Himself  once  manifest  in  flesh,  this  very 
flesh  of  ours. 

And  it  seemed,  on  that  strange,  wild  night,  just  such  an- 
other winter's  night  as  I  remember,  years  and  years  ago — 
as  if  this  distinction  between  the  life  and  the  soul  grew 
clearer  to  me  than  ever  before ;  as  if,  pardoning  all  that 
had  happened  to  its  mortal  part,  a  ghost,  which,  were  such 
visitations  allowed,  though  I  do  not  believe  they  are,  might 
be  supposed  often  to  visit  me,  followed  my  ghost,  harmless- 
ly, nay,  pitifully,  I 

"Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself," 
the  whole  way  between  the  camp  and  Rockmount. 

I  dismounted  under  the  ivy-bush  which  overhangs  the 
garden  gate,  which  gate  had  been  left  open,  so  I  was  able 
to  go  at  once  up  to  the  hall  door,  where  the  fanlight  flick- 
ered on  the  white  stone  floor ;  the  old  man's  stick  was  in 
the  corner,  and  the  yomig  ladies'  hats  hung  up  on  the 
branching  stag's  horns. 

For  the  moment  I  half  believed  myself  dreaming,  and 
that  I  should  wake,  as  I  have  often  done,  after  half  an  hour's 


A    LIPE   FOE   A   LIFE.  139 

rest,  with  the  salt  morning  breeze  blowing  on  me,  in  the 
outside  gallery  of  Scutari  Hospital,  start  up,  take  my  lamp, 
and  go-round  my  wards. 

But  minutes  were  precious.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  almost 
immediately  a  figure  shd  down  the  staircase  and  opened  the 
door.  I  might  not  have  thought  it  flesh  and  blood,  but  for 
the  touch  of  its  httle  cold  hand. 

"  Ah !  it  is  you,  at  last ;  I  was  sm-e  you  would  come." 

"  Certamly." 

Perhaps  she  thought  me  cold,  "  professional,"  as  if  she 
had  looked  for  a  friend,  and  found  only  the  doctor.  Per- 
haps— ^nay,  it  must  be  so — she  never  thought  of  me  at  all 
except  as  the  "  doctor." 

"  Where  is  your  father  ?" 

"  Up  stairs ;  we  carried  him  at  once  to  his  room.  Will 
you  come?" 

So  I  followed — I  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  tc 
follow  that  light  figure,  with  the  voice  so  low,  the  manner 
so  quiet — quieter  than  I  ever  expected  to  see  hers,  or  any 
woman's,  under  such  an  emergency.  I  ?  what  did  I  ever 
know  of  woman,  except  that  a  woman  bore  me  ?  It  is  an 
odd  fancy,  but  I  have  never  thought  so  much  about  my  moth- 
er as  within  the  last  few  months.  And  sometimes,  turning 
over  the  sole  rehcs  I  have  of  hers,  a  ribbon  or  two  and  a 
cmi  of  hair,  and  calling  to  mind  the  few  things  Dallas  re- 
membered about  her,  I  have  imagiaed  my  mother,  in  her 
youth,  must  have  been  something  hke  this  young  girl. 

She  entered  the  bedroom  first. 

"  You  may  come  in  now.  You  will  not  startle  him ;  I 
thiak  he  loiows  nobody." 

I  sat  down  beside  my  patient.  He  lay  just  as  he  had 
been  brought  in  from  the  road,  with  a  blanket  and  counter- 
pane thrown  over  him,  breathing  heavily,  but  quite  uncon- 
scious. 

"  The  light,  please.  Can  you  hold  it  for  me  ?  Is  your 
hand  steady  ?"  And  I  held  it  a  moment  to  judge.  That 
weakness  cost  me  too  much;  I  took  care  not  to  risk  it 
again. 

When  I  finished  my  examination  and  looked  up,  Miss 
Theodora  was  still  standmg  by  me.  Her  eyes  only  asked 
the  question — which,  thank  God,  I  could  answer  as  I  did. 

"  Yes — it  is  a  more  hopeful  case  than  I  expected." 

At  this  shadow  of  hope — for  it  was  only  a  shadow — the 
deadly  quiet  in  which  she  had  kept  herself  was  stirred. 


140  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

She  began  to  tremble  exceedingly.     I  took  tbe  candle  from 
her,  and  gave  her  a  chau*. 

"Never  mmd  me.  It  is  only  for  a  minute,"  she  said. 
One  or  two  deep,  hard  sighs  came,  and  then  she  recovered 
herself     "  Now,  Avhat  is  to  be  done?" 

I  told  her  I  would  do  all  that  was  necessary,  if  she  would 
bring  me  various  things  I  mentioned. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  There  is  no  one  else.  Penelope  has 
hurt  her  foot,  and  can  not  move,  and  the  servants  are  mere 
girls.  Shall  I  stay  ?  If  there  is  any  operation,  I  am  not 
afraid." 

^For  I  had  unguardedly  taken  out  of  my  pocket  the  case 
of  instruments,  which,  after  all,  would  not  be  needed.  I  told 
her  so,  adding  that  I  had  rather  she  left  me  alone  with  my 
patient. 

"  Very  well.  You  will  take  care  of  him  ?  You  will  not 
hurt  him — poor  papa.!" 

Not  very  likely.  If  he  and  I  could  have  changed  places 
— he  assuming  my  strength  and  life,  I  lying  on  that  bed, 
with  death  before  me,  under  such  a  look  as  his  child  left 
him  with — I  think  I  should  at  that  moment  have  done  it. 

When  I  had  laid  the  old  man  comfortable  in  his  bed,  I 
sat  with  his  wrist  under  my  fingers,  counting,  beat  by  beat, 
the  slow  pulse,  which  was  one  of  my  slender  hopes  for  his 
recovery.  As  the  hand  dropped  over  my  knee,  powerless, 
almost,  as  a  dead  hand,  it  recalled,  I  know  not  how  or  why, 
the  helpless  drop  of  that^  the  first  dead  hand  I  ever  saw. 
Happily  the  fancy  lasted  only  a  moment ;  in  seasons  like 
this,  when  I  am  deeply  occupied  in  the  practice  of  my  pro- 
fession, all  such  phantasms  are  laid.  And  the  present  case 
was  urgent  enough  to  concentrate  all  my  thoughts  and  fac- 
ulties. 

I  had  just  made  up  my  mind  concerning  it  when  a  gentle 
knock  came  to  the  door,  and  on  my  answering,  she  walked 
in ;  glided  rather,  for  she  had  taken  off  her  silk  gown,  and 
put  on  something  soft  and  dark,  which  did  not  rustle.  In 
her  face,  white  as  it  was,  there  was  a  quiet  preparedness, 
more  touching  than  any  wildness  of  grief — a  quahty  which 
few  women  possess,  but  which  heaven  never  seems  to  give 
except  to  women,  compelHng  us  men,  as  it  were,  to  our 
knees,  in  recognition  of  something  diviner  than  any  thing 
Ave  have,  or  are,  or  were  ever  meant  to  be.  I  mention  this, 
lest  it  might  be  thought  of  me,  as  is  often  thought  of  doc- 
tors, that  I  did  not  feel. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  141 

She  asked  me  no  questions,  but  stood  silently  beside  me, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  father.  His  just  opened,  as  they 
had  done  several  times  before,  wandered  vacantly  over  the 
bed-curtains,  and  closed  again,  with  a  moan. 

She  looked  at  me,  frightened — the  poor  child. 
•I  explained  to  her  that  this  moaning  was  no  additional 
cause  of  alarm,  rather  the  contrary ;  that  her  father  might 
he  in  his  present  state  for  hours — days. 

"  And  can  you  do  nothing  for  him  ?" 

K I  could — at  any  cost  which  mortal  man  could  pay  ! 

Motioning  her  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  I  there, 
as  is  my  habit,  when  the  friends  of  the  patient  seem  capa- 
ble of  listening  and  comprehending,  gave  her  my  opinion 
about  the  course  of  treatment  I  intended  to  adopt,  and  my 
reasons  for  the  same.  In  this  case,  of  all  others,  I  wished 
not  to  leave  the  relatives  in  the  dark,  lest  they  might  after- 
ward blame  me  for  doing  nothiug ;  when,  in  truth,  to  do 
nothing  was  the  only  chancCo  I  told  her  my  belief  that  it 
would  be  safest  to  maintain  perfect  silence  and  repose,  and 
leave  benignant  Nature  to  work  in  her  own  mysterious  way 
— Nature,  whom  the  longer  one  hves,  the  more  one  trusts 
in  as  the  only  true  physician. 

"  Therefore,"  I  said,  "  will  you  understand  that,  however 
little  I  do,  I  am  acting  as  I  beheve  to  be  best  ?  Will  you 
trust  me  ?" 

She  looked  up  searchingly,  and  then  said,  "  Yes."  After 
a  few  moments  she  asked  me  how  long  I  could  stay  ?  if  I 
were  obhged  to  retm^n  to  the  camp  immediately  ? 

I  told  her  "  No ;  that  I  did  not  intend  to  return  till  morn- 
ing." 

"  Ah !  that  is  well.  Shall  I  order  a  room  to  be  prepared 
for  you?" 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  prefer  sitting  up." 

"  You  are  very  kind.     You  will  be  a  great  comfort." 

I,  "  a  great  comfort !"  I—"  kmd  I" 

My  thoughts  must  needs  return  into  their  right  channel. 
I  believe  the  next  thing  she  said  was  something  about  my 
gomg  to  see  "  Penelope :"  at  least  I  found  myself  with  my 
hand  on  the  door,  all  but  touching  hers,  as  she  was  show- 
ing me  how  to  open  it. 

"  There :  the  second  room  to  the  left.  Shall  I  go  with 
you  ?     No !     I  will  stay  here,  then,  till  you  return." 

So,  after  she  had  closed  the  door,  I  remained  alone  in  the 
dim  passage  for  a  few  moments.  It  was  well.  No  man 
can  be  his  own  master  at  all  times. 


142  A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE. 

Miss  Johnston  was  a  good  deal  more  hurt  than  she  had 
confessed.  As  she  lay  on  the  bed,  still  in  her  gay  dress, 
with  artificial  flowers  in  her  hair — her  face,  paUid  and  drawn 
with  pain,  looked  almost  like  that  of  an  old  woman.  She 
seemed  annoyed  at  my  commg — she  dishkes  me,  I  know : 
but  anxiety  about  her  father,  and  her  own  suffering,  kept 
her  aversion  within  bounds.  She  hstened  to  my  medical 
report  from  the  next  room,  and  submitted  to  my  orders 
concerning  herself,  until  she  learned  that  at  least  a  week's 
confinement,  to  rest  her  foot,  would  be  necessary.  Then 
she  rebelled. 

"  That  is  impossible.  I  must  be  up  and  about.  There  is 
nobody  to  do  any  thing  but  me." 

"  Your  sister  ?" 

"  Lisabel  is  married.  Oh,  you  meant  Dora  ?  We  never 
expect  any  useful  thing  from  Dora," 

This  speech  did  not  surprise  me.  It  merely  confirmed  a 
good  deal  which  I  had  already  noticed  in  this  family.  Also, 
it  might  in  degree  be  true.  I  think,  so  far  from  being  blind 
to  them,  I  see  clearer  than  most  people  every  fault  she  has. 

Neither  contradicting  nor  arguing,  I  repeated  to  Miss . 
Johnston  the  imperative  necessity  for  her  attending  to  my 
orders :  adding  that  I  had  known  more  than  one  case  of  a 
person  being  made  a  cripple  for  life  by  neglecting  such  an 
injury  as  hers. 

"  A  cripple  for  life !"  She  started — ^her  color  came  and 
went — her  eye  wandered  to  the  chair  beside  her,  on  which 
was  her  little  writing-case ;  I  conclude  that  in  the  intervals 
of  her  pain  she  had  been  trying  to  send  these  ill  news,  or 
to  apply  for  help  to  some  one. 

"  You  will  be  lame  for  life,"  I  repeated,  "  unless  you  take 
care." 

"ShaUI,  now?" 

"  No ;  with  reasonable  caution,  I  trust  you  will. do  well." 

"That  is  enough.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  any  more 
about  me.     Pray  go  back  to  my  father. " 

She  turned  from  me  and  closed  her  eyes.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done  with  Miss  Penelope.  Calling  a 
servant  who  stood  by,  I  gave  my  last  orders  concerning 
her,  and  departed.  A  strange  person— this  elder  sister. 
What  differences  of  character  exist  in  families  ! 

There  was  no  change  in  my  other  patient.  As  I  stood 
looking  at  him,  his  daughter  glided  round  to  my  side.  We 
exchanged  a  glance  only — she  seemed  quite  to  understand 


A   LIFE   FOR  A   LIFE.  143 

that  talking  was  inadmissible.  Then  she  stood  by  me, 
silently  gazing. 

"  You  are  sm'e  there  is  no  change  ?" 

"  None." 

"  Lisa — ought  she  not  to  know  ?  I  never  sent  a  telegraph 
message ;  will  you  tell  me  how  to  do  it  ?" 

Her  quiet  assumption  of  duty — ^her  thoughtful,  methodic- 
al arrangements ;  surely  the  sister  was  wrong — that  is,  as 
I  knew  well,  any  great  necessity  would  soon  prove  her  to 
be  wrong — about  Miss  Theodora. 

I  said  there  was  no  need  to  telegraph  until  morning, 
when,  as  I  rode  back  to  the  camp,  I  would  do  it  myself. 

"  Thank  you." 

ISTo  objection  or  apology;  only  that  soft  "thank  you" — 
taking  aU  things  calnily  and  naturally,  as  a  man  would  like 
to  see  a  woman  take  the  gift  of  his  hfe,  if  necessary.  No, 
not  life ;  that  is  owed — but  any  or  all  of  its  few  pleasures 
would  be  cheerfully  laid  down  for  such  another  "thank 

While  I  was  considering  what  should  be  done  for  the 
night,  there  came  a  rustling  and  chattering  outside  in  the 
passage.  Miss  Johnston  had  sent  a  servant  to  sit  up  with 
her  father.  She  came — ^knocking  at  the  door-handle,  rat- 
thng  the  candlestick,  and  tramping  across  the  floor  like  a 
regiment  of  soldiers — so  that  my  patient  moaned,  and  put 
up  his  hand  to  his  head. 

I  said — sharply  enough,  no  doubt — ^that  I  must  have  quiet. 
A  loud  voice,  a  door  slammed  to,  even  a  heavy  step  across 
the  floor,  and  I  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences.  If 
Mr.  Johnston  were  meant  to  recover,  there  must  be  no  one 
in  his  room  but  the  doctor  and  the  nurse. 

"  I  imderstand- — Susan,  come  away." 

There  was  a  brief  conference  outside ;  then  Miss  Theo- 
dora re-entered  alone,  bolted  the  door,  and  was  again  at 
my  side. 
"  "Will  that  do?" 

"Yes." 

The  clock  struck  two  while  we  were  standing  there.  1 
stole  a  glance  at  her  white,  composed  face. 

"  Can  you  sit  up,  do  you  think?" 

"  Certamly." 

Without  more  ado — for  I  was  just  then  too  much  occu- 
pied with  a  passing  change  in  my  patient— the  matter  was 
decided.     When  I  next  looked  for  her  she  had  sHpped 


144  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

round  the  foot  of  tlie  bed,  and  taken  her  place  behind  the 
curtam  on  the  other  side.  There  we  both  sat,  hour  after 
hour,  in  total  silence. 

I  tell  every  thmg,  you  see,  just  as  minutely  as  I  remem- 
ber it — and  shall  remember  it — long  after  every  circum- 
stance, trivial  or  great,  has  faded  out  of  every  memory, 
except  mine.  If  these  letters  are  ever  read  by  other  than 
myself,  words  and  incidents  long  forgotten  may  revive: 
that  when  I  die,  as  in  the  course  of  nature  I  shall  do,  long 
before  younger  persons,  it  may  be  seen  that  it  is  not  youth 
alone  which  can  receive  impressions  vividly  and  retain  them 
strongly. 

I  could  not  see  her — ^I  could  only  see  the  face  on  the  pil- 
low, where  a  dim  light  fell ;  just  enough  to  show  me  the 
slightest  change,  did  any  come.  But,  closely  as  I  watch- 
ed, none  did  come.  Not  even  a  twitch  or  quiver  broke 
that  blank  expression  of  repose  which  was  neither  life  nor 
death. 

I  thought  several  times  that  it  would  settle  into  death 
before  morning.     And  then  ? 

Where  was  all  my  boasted  skill,  my  belief  in  my  owti 
powers  of  saving  hfe?  Why,  sitting  here,  trusted  and 
looked  up  to,  depended  upon  as  the  sole  human  stay — my 
countenance  examined,  as  I  felt  it  was,  even  as  if  it  were 
the  index  and  arbiter  of  fate — I,  watching,  as  I  never 
watched  before  by  any  sick-bed,  this  breath  which  trem- 
bled in  the  balance,  felt  myself  as  ignorant  and  useless 
as  a  child.  N^ay,  I  was  "  as  a  dead  man  before  Thee,"  O 
Thou  humbler  of  pride ! 

Cryuig  to  myself  thus — Job's  cry — ^I  thought  of  another 
Hebrew,  who  sought  "not  unto  the  Lord,  but  unto  the 
physicians ;"  and  died.  It  came  into  my  mind.  May  there 
not  be,  even  in  these  days,  such  a  thing  as  "  seeking  the 
Lord?" 

I  believe  there  is :  I  Tcnow  there  is. 

The  candle  went  out.  I  had  sat  with  my  eyes  shut,  and 
had  not  ndticed  it  till  I  heard  her  steal  across  the  room 
trymg  to  get  a  light.  Afraid  to  trust  my  own  heavy  step 
— hers  seemed  as  soft  as  snow — I  contrived  to  pull  the 
window-blind  aside,  so  that  a  pale  white  streak  fell  across 
the  hearth  where  she  was  kneeling — the  cheerless  hearth, 
for  I  had  not  dared  to  risk  the  noise  of  keeping  up  a  fire. 

She  looked  up,  and  shivered. 

"  Is  that  light  morning  ?" 


A   LITE   FOR   A   LIFE.  145 

"Yes.     Are  you  cold?" 

"A  little." 

"  It  is  always  cold  at  daybreak.     Go  and  get  a  shawl." 

She  took  no  notice,  but  put  the  candle  in  its  place  and 
came  over  to  me. 

"  How  do  you  think  he  is  ?" 

"  No  worse." 

A  sigh,  patient,  but  hopeless.  I  took  an  opportunity  of 
examming  her  closely,  to  judge  how  long  her  self-control 
was  likely  to  last ;  or  whether,  after  this  great  shock  and 
weary  night-watch,  her  physical  strength  would  fail.  So 
looking,  I  noticed  a  few  blood-drops  trickling  over  her  fore- 
head, oozing  from  under  her  hair : 

"What  is  this?" 

"  Oh,  nothing !  I  struck  myself  as  we  were  lifting  papa 
from  the  carriage.     I  thought  it  had  ceased  bleeding." 

"  Let  me  look  at  it  a  moment.  There — I  shall  not  h4irt 
you." 

"  Oh,  no !     I  am  not  afraid." 

I  cut  the  hair  from  round  the  place,  and  plastered  it  up. 
It  hardly  took  a  minute ;  was  the  smallest  of  surgical  oper- 
ations ;  yet  she  trembled.  I  saw  her  strength  was  begin- 
ning to  yield ;  and  she  might  need  it  all. 

"  Now,  you  must  go  and  lie  down  for  an  hour." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  must." 

There  might  have  been  something  harsh  in  the  words — 
I  did  not  quite  know  what  I  was  saying — ^for  she  looked 
surprised, 

"  I  mean  you  ought ;  which  is  enough  argument  with  a 
girl  like  you.  If  you  clo  not  rest,  you  will  never  be  able  to 
keep  up  for  another  twelve  hours,  during  which  your  father 
may  need  you.     He  does  not  need  you  now," 

"And  you?" 

"  I  had  much  rather  be  alone."     Which  was  most  true. 

So  she  left  me ;  but,  ten  minutes  after,  I  heard  again  the 
light  step  at  the  door. 

"  I  have  brought  you  this"  (some  biscuits  and  a  glass  of 
milk).     "  I  know  you  never  take  wine." 

Wine !  Oh,  Heaven !  no !  Would  that,  years  ago,  the 
first  drop  had  burnt  my  lips — ^been  as  gall  to  my  tongue — 
proved  to. me  not  drink,  but  poison — as  the  poor  old  man 
now  lying  there  once  wished  it  might  have  happened  to 
any  son  of  his.    Well  might  my  father,  my  yoimg,  happy 

G 


146  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

father,  who  married  my  mother,  and,  loving  and  loved,  spent 
with  her  the  brief  years  of  their  youth — well,  indeed,  might 
my  father  have  wished  it  for  me ! 

So  there  I  sat,  after  the  food  she  brought  me  had  been 
swallowed  down  somehow — for  it  would  have  hurt  her  to 
come  back  and  find  it  untouched.  Thus  watching,  hope 
lessened  by  degrees,  sank  into  mere  conjectures  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  the  watch  would  end.  Possibly,  in  this 
state  of  half-consciousness,  the  breath  would  quietly  pass 
away,  without  struggle  or  pain;  which  would  be  easiest 
for  them  all. 

I  laid  my  plans,  in  that  case,  either  to  be  of  any  use  to 
the  family  if  I  could,  by  remaining  until  the  Trehernes  ar- 
rived, or  to  leave  immediately  all  was  over.  Circumstances, 
and  their  apparent  wish,  must  be  my  only  guide.  After- 
ward there  would  be  no  difficulty ;  the  less  they  saw  of  any 
one  who  had  been  associated  with  such  a  painful  time,  the 
better.     Better  for  all  of  them. 

The  clock  below  struck — what  hour  I  did  not  count,  but 
it  felt  like  morning.  It  was — ^must  be — I  must  make  it 
morning. 

I  went  to  the  window  to  refresh  my  eyes  with  the  soft 
white  dawn,  which,  as  I  opened  the  blind,  stole  into  the 
room,  making  the  candle  burn  yellow  and  dim.  The  night 
was  over  and  gone.  Across  the  moorland,  and  up  on  the 
far  hills,  it  was  already  morning. 

A  thought  struck  me,  suggesting  one  more  chance.  Ex- 
tinguishing the  candle,  I  drew  aside  all  the  curtains,  so  as 
to  throw  the  dayUght  in  a  full  stream  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed;  and  by  the  side  of  it — with  the  patient's  hand  be- 
tween mine,  and  my  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his  face — ^I  sat 
down.  "^ 

His  eyes  opened,  not  in  the  old  blank  way,  but  with  an 
expression  in  them  that  I  never  expected  to  see  again. 
They  turned  instinctively  to  the  hght ;  then,  with  a  slow, 
wandering,  but  perfectly  rational  look,  toward  me.  Feebly 
the  old  man  smiled. 

That  minute  was  worth  dying  for;  or,  rather,  having 
lived  for  all  these  twenty  years.  • 

The  rest  which  I  have  to  tell  must  be  told  another  time. 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LITE.  147 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HIS  STOEY. 

I  HAVE  not  been  able  to  continue  this.  Every  day  has 
been  full  of  business,  and  every  night  I  have  spent  at  Rock- 
mount  for  the  last  three  weeks. 

Such  was,  I  solemnly  aver — from  no  fixed  intention ;  I 
meant  only  to  go  as  an  ordinary  doctor — m  order,  if  possi- 
ble to  save  the  hfe  J:hat  was  valuable  in  itself,  and  most 
precious  to  some  few ;  afterward,  whichever  way  the  case 
terminated,  to  take  my  leave,  like  any  other  medical  at- 
tendant :  receiving  thanks  or  fee.  Yes,  if  they  ofiered  it,  I 
determined  to  take  a  fee ;  in  order  to  show,  both  to  them 
and  myself,  that  I  was  only  the  doctor — the  paid  physician. 
But  this  last  wound  has  been  spared  me,  and  I  only  name 
it  now  in  proof  that  nothing  has  happened  as  I  expected  or 
intended. 

I  remember  I>allas,  in  reading  to  me  the  sermons  he  used 
to  write  for  practice — preparing  for  the  sacred  duties  which, 
to  him,  never  came — had  one  upon  the  text,  "  Thy  will  be 
done ;"  where,  in  words  more  beautiful  than  I  dare  try  to 
repeat  in  mine,  he  explained  how  good  it  was  for  us  that 
things  so  seldom  fell  out  according  to  our  short-sighted 
plannings ;  how  many  a  man  had  lived  to  bless  God  that 
his  own  petty  will  had  not  been  done ;  that  nothmg  had 
happened  to  him  according  as  he  exj^ected  or  intended. 

Do  you  know,  you  to  whom  I  write,  how  much  it  means, 
my  thus  naming  to  you  Dallas — whose  name,  since  he  died, 
has  never  but  once  passed  my  hps  ? 

I  think  you  would  have  liked  my  brother  Dallas.  He 
was  not  at  all  like  me — I  took  after  my  father,  people  said, 
and  he  after  our  mother.  He  had  soft,  English  features, 
and  smooth,  fine,  dark  hau\  He  was  smaller  than  I,  though 
so  much  the  elder.  The  very  last  Christmas  we  had  at  St. 
Andrew's,  I  mind  lifting  him  up  and  carrying  him  several 
yards  in  play,  laughing  at  him  for  being  as  thin  and  light 
as  a  lady.  We  were  merry-hearted  fellows,  and  had  many 
a  joke,  the  two  of  us,  when  we  were  together.*  Strange  to 
think  that  I  am  a  man  nigh  upon  forty,  and  that  he  has  been 
dead  twenty  years. 


14b  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

It  is  you,  little  as  you  guess  it,  who  have  made  me  think 
upon  these  my  dead — my  father,  mother,  and  Dallas,  whom 
I  have  never  dared  to  think  of  until  now.  Let  me.  con- 
tinue. 

Mr.  Johnston's  has  been  a  difficult  case — ^more  so  in  its 
secondary  stages  than  at  first.  I  explained  this  to  his 
daughter — the  second  daughter— the  only  one  whom  I 
fomid  of  much  assistance  ;  Miss  Johnston  being  extremely 
nervous  and  irritable,  and  Mrs.  Treherne,  who  I  trusted 
would  have  taken  her  share  in  the  nursing,  proving  more 
of  a  hinderance  than  a  help.  She  could  not  be  made  to 
comprehend  why,  when  her  father  was  out  of  danger,  she 
should  not  rush  in  and  out  of  the  sick-room  continually, 
with  her  chattering  voice,  and  her  noisy  silk  dresses ;  and 
she  was  offended  because,  when  Mr.  Charteris,  having  come 
for  a  day  from  London,  was  admitted,  quiet,  scared,  and 
shocked,  to  spend  a  few  minutes  by  the  old  man's  bedside, 
her  Augustus,  full  of  lively  rattle  and  rude  animal  spirits, 
was  carefully  kept  out  of  the  room. 

"  You  plan  it  all  between  you,"  she  said,  one  day,  half 
sulkily,  to  her  sister  and  myself  "  You  play  into  one  an- 
other's hands  as  if  you  had  lived  together  all  your  lives. 
Confess,  Doctor — confess.  Miss  Nurse,  you  would  keep  me 
too  out  of  papa's  room,  if  you  could." 

I  certainly  would.  Though  an  excellent  person,  kind- 
hearted  and  good-tempered  to  a  degree,  Mrs.  Treherne -con- 
trived to  try  my  temper  more  than  I  would  like  to  say  for 
two  intolerable  days. 

The  third,  I  resolved  on  a  little  conversation  with  Miss 
Theodora,  who,  having  sat  up  till  my  watch  began  at  two, 
now  cam«  in  to  me,  while  I  was  taking  breakfast,  to  receive 
my  orders  for  the  day.  These  were  simple  enough :  quiet, 
silence,  and,  except  old  Mrs.  Cartwright,  whom  I  had  sent 
for,  only  one  person  to  be  allowed  in  my  patient's  room. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  am  glad  of  that.     Just  hearken !" 

Doors  slamming ;  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ;  Mrs.  Treherne 
calling  out  to  her  husband  not  to  smoke  in  the  hall.  "  That 
is  how  it  is  all  day,  when  you  are  away.  What  can  I  do  ? 
Help  me,  please,  help  me !" 

An  entreaty  almost  childish  in  its  earnestness.  Now  and 
then,  through  all  this  time,  she  has  seemed,  in  her  behavior 
toward  me,  Tess  hke  a  woman  than  a  trusting,  dependent 
child. 

I  sent  for  Treherne  and  his  wife,  and  told  them  that  the 


A   LIFE    FOE    A   LIFE.  149 

present  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  in  which  there  could 
be  no  standing  upon  ceremony ;  that  in  this  house,  where 
no  legitimate  rule  existed,  and  all  were  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced, I,  as  the  physician,  must  have  authority,  which  au- 
thority must  be  obeyed.  If  they  wished,  I  would  resign 
the  case  altogether ;  but  I  soon  saw  that  was  not  desired. 
They  promised  obedience ;  and  I  repeated  the  medical  or- 
ders, adding  that,  during  my  absence,  only  one  person,  the 
person  I  chose,  should  be  left  in  charge  of  my  patient. 

"  Yery  well.  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Treherne :  "  and  that  is — " 

"Miss  Theodora." 

"  Theodora !  oh,  nonsense !  She  never  nursed  any  body. 
She  never  Avas  fit  for  any  thing." 

"  She  is  fit  for  all  I  require,  and  her  father  wishes  for  her 
also ;  therefore,  if  you  please,  will  you  at  once  go  up  to 
him,  Miss  Theodora?" 

She  had  stood  patient  and  impassive  till  I  spoke,  then  the 
color  rushed  into  her  face  and  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  She 
left  the  room  immediately. 

But,  as  I  went,  she  was  lying  in  wait  for  me  at  the  door. 
"  Thank  you — thank  you  so  much !  But  do  you  really  thmk 
I  shall  make  a  good,  careful  nurse  for  dear  papa  ?" 

I  told  her  "  Certainly ;  better  than  any  one  else  here ; 
better,  indeed,  than  any  one  I  knew." 

It  was  good  to  see  her  look  of  happy  surprise. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  ?  Nobody  ever  thought  so 
well  of  me  before.  I  will  try — ah !  won't  I  try  ? — to  de- 
serve your  good  opinion." 

Ignorant,  simple  heart. 

Most  people  have  some  other  person,  real  or  imaginary, 
who  is  more  "  comfortable"  to  them  than  any  one  else — to 
whom,  m  trouble,  the  thoughts  always  fly  first ;  who,  in 
sickness,  would  be  chosen  to  smooth  the  weary  pillow,  and 
holding  whose  hand  they  would  like  to  die.  ISTow  it  would 
be  quite  easy,  quite  happy  to  die  in  a  certain  chamber  I 
know,  shadowy  and  still,  with  a  carpet  of  a  green  leafy  pat- 
tern, and  bunches  of  fuchsias  papering  the  walls.  And, 
about  the  room,  a  little  figure  moving ;  slender,  noiseless, 
busy,  and  sweet ;  in  a  brown  dress,  soft  to  touch,  and  mak- 
ing no  sound,  with  a  white  collar  fastened  by  a  little  color- 
ed bow  above  it ;  the  delicate  throat  and  small  head  Hke  a 
deer's  ;  and  the  eyes  something  like  a  deer's  eyes  also,  which 
turn  round  large  and  quiet,  to  look  you  right  in  the  face — 
as  they  did  then. 


150  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

I  wonder,  if  any  accident  or  illness  were  to  happen  to  me 
here,  while  staying  in  the  camp — something  that  would 
make  it  certain  I  had  only  a  few  days  or  hours  to  live — 
and  I  happened  to  have  sufficient  consciousness  and  will  to 
say  what  I  wished  done,  whom  I  desired  to  see,  in  those 
few  last  hours,  wdien  the  longing  of  a  dying  man  could 
injure  nobody —  Enough!  this  is  the  merest  folly.  To 
live,  not  to  die,  is  likely  to  be  my  portion.  I  accept  it; 
blame  me  not. 

Day  after  day  has  gone  on  in  the  same  round — my  ride 
to  Rockmount  after  dusk,  tea  there,  and  my  evening  sleep 
in  "the  doctor's  room."  There,  at  midnight,  Treherne 
wakes  me.  I  dress,  and  return  to  that  quiet  chamber, 
where  the  Httle  figure  rises  from  beside  the  bed  with  a 
smile  and  a  whisper,  "  Not  at  all  tired,  thank  you."  A  few 
words  more,  and  I  give  it  my  candle,  bid  it  "  good-night," 
and  take  its  place,  sitting  down  m  the  same  arm-chair,  and 
leaning  my  head  back  against  the  same  cushion,  which  still 
keeps  the  indentation,  soft  and  warm ;  and  so  I  watch  by 
the  old  man  till  morning. 

This  is  how  it  has  regularly  been. 

Until  lately,  night  was  the  patient's  most  trying  time. 
He  used  to  lie  rnoaning,  or  watching  the  shadows  of  the 
firelight  on  the  curtams.  Sometimes,  when  I  gave  him  food 
or  medicine,  turning  upon  me  with  a  wild  stare,  as  if  he 
hardly  knew  me,  or  thought  I  was  some  one  else.  Or  he 
would  question  me  vaguely  as  to  where  was  Dora?  and 
would  I  take  care  that  she  had  a  good  long  sleep — poor 
Dora! 

Dora — Theodora — "the  gift  of  God" — it  is  good  to  have 
names  with  meanings  to  them,  though  people  so  seldom  re- 
semble their  names.  Her  father  seems  beginning  to  feel 
that  she  is  not  unlike  hers. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl.  Doctor,"  he  said  one  evening,  when, 
after  having  safely  borne  moving  from  bed  to  his  arm-chair, 
I  pronounced  my  patient  convalescent,  and  his  daughter 
was  sent  to  take  tea  and  spend  the  evening  down  stairs, 
"  she  is  a  very  good  girl.  Perhaps  I  have  never  thought 
of  my  daughters." 

I  answered  vaguely,  daughters  were  a  great  blessing — 
often  more  so  than  sons. 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  he  said  suddenly,  after  a  few  min- 
utes' pause.     "  You  were  never  married,  I  beheve  ?" 

"No." 


A  LIFE   rOR   A   LIFE.  151 

"  J£  you  do  many,  never  long  for  a  son.  IsTever  build  your 
hopes  on  him,  trusting  he  will  keep  up  your  name,  and  be 
the  stay  of  your  old  age.  I  had  one  boy,  sir ;  he  was  more 
to  me  than  all  my  daughters." 

A  desperate  question  was  I  prompted  to  ask — I  could 
not  withhold  it,  though  the  old  man's  agitated  countenance 
showed  that  it  must  be  one  passing  question  only. 

"Is  your  son  livmg?" 

"  No.     He  died  young," 

This,  then,  must  be  the  secret — simple  and  plain  enough. 
He  was  "  aboy" — he  died  "  young,"  perhaps  about  eighteen 
or  nineteen — the  age  when  boys  are  most  prone  to  run  wild. 
This  lad  must  have  done  so  ;  puttmg  all  the  circumstances 
together,  the  conclusion  was  obvious,  that  in  some  way  or 
other  he  had,  before  his  death,  or  in  his  death,  caused  his 
father  great  grief  and  shame. 

I  could  well  imagine  it ;  fancy  drew  the  whole  picture, 
filling  it  up  pertinaciously,  line  by  line.  A  man  of  Mr. 
Johnston's  character,  marrying  late  in  life — as  he  must  have 
done,  to  be  seventy  when  his  youngest  child  was  not  much 
oyer  twenty — would  be  a  dangerous  father  for  any  impet- 
uous, headstrong  boy.  A  motherless  boy  too ;  Mrs.  John- 
ston died  early.  It  was  easy  to  understand  how  strife  would 
rise  between  the  son  and  father ;  a  father  no  longer  young, 
with  all  his  habits  and  peculiarities  formed ;  sensitive,  over- 
exacting;  rigidly  good,  yet  of  somewhat  narrow-minded 
virtue ;  scrupulously  kind,  yet  not  tender ;  alive  to  the 
lightest  fault,  yet  seldom  warming  into  sympathy  or  praise. 
The  sort  of  man  who  compels  respect,  and  whom,  being 
one's  self  blameless,  one  might  even  love ;  but,  havmg  com- 
mitted any  error,  one's  first  impulse  would  be  to  fly  from 
him  to  the  very  end  of  the  earth. 

Such,  no  doubt,  had  been  the  case  with  that  poor  boy, 
who  "  died  young."  Out  of  England,  no  doubt,  or  surely 
they  would  have  brought  him  home,  and  buried  him  under 
the  shadow  of  his  father's  church,  and  his  memory  would 
have  left  some  trace  m  the  family,  the  village,  or  the  neigh- 
borhood. As  it  was,  it  seemed  blotted  out — as  if  he  had 
never  existed.  No  one  knew  about  him — no  one  spoke 
about  him,  not  even  the  sisters,  his  playmates.  So  she — 
the  second  sister — had  said.  It  was  a  tacit  hint  for  me 
also  to  keep  silence — otherAvise  I  would  have  liked  to  ask 
her  more  about  him — this  poor  fallen  boy.  I  know  how 
suddenly,  how  involuntarily,  as  it  seems,  a  wretched  boy 
can  fall — into  some  perdition  never  afterward  retrieved. 


152  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

Thinking  thus — sitting  by  the  bedroom  fire,  with  Mi% 
Johnston  asleep  opposite — poor  old  man,  it  must  have  been 
his  boy's  case,  and  not  his  own,  which  has  made  him  so 
sensitive  about  only  sons — I  suddenly  called  to  mind  how, 
in  the  absorbing  anxiety  of  the  last  thrcB  weeks — that  day 
— ^the  anniversary — had  slipped  by,  and  I  had  not  even 
recollected  it.  It  could  be  forgotten  then  ?  was  this  a  warn- 
ing that  I  might  let  it  pass,  if  it  would,  into  oblivion — and 
yield  like  any  other  man,  to  pleasant  duties,  and  social  ties, 
the  warmth  of  which  stole  into  me,  body  and  soul,  like  this 
blessed  household  fire.  It  could  not  last — ^but  while  it  did 
last,  why  not  share  it ;  why  persist  in  sitting  outside  in  the 
cold? 

You  will  not  understand  this.  Tliere  are  some  thmgs  I 
can  not  explain,  till  the  last  letter,  if  ever  I  should  come  to 
write  it.     Then  you  will  know. 

Tea  over,  Miss  Theodora  came  to  see  after  "  our  patient," 
as  she  called  him,  asking  if  he  had  behaved  well,  and  done 
nothing  he  ought  not  to  have  done  ? 

I  told  her,  that  was  an  amount  of  perfection  scarcely  to 
be  exacted  from  any  mortal  creature ;  at  which  she  laughed, 
and  replied,  she  was  sure  I  said  this  with  an  air  of  depreca- 
tion, as  if  afraid  such  perfection  might  be  required  of  me. 

Often  her  little  hand  carries  an  invisible  sword.  I  try 
to  hide  the  wounds,  but  the  last  hour's  meditation  made 
them  sharper  than  ordinary.  For  once,  she  saw  it.  She 
came  and  knelt  by  the  fire,  not  far  from  me,  thoughtfullyo 
Then,  suddenly  turning  round,  said, 

"  If  ever  I  say  a  rude  thing  to  you,  forgive  it.  I  wish  I 
were  only  half  as  good  as  you." 

The  tone,  so  earnest,  yet  so  utterly  simple — a  child  might 
have  said  the  same,  looking  into  one's  face  with  the  same 
frank  eyes.     God  forgive  me !     God  pity  me ! 

I  rose  and  went  to  the  bedside  to  speak  to  her  father, 
who  just  then  woke  and  called  for  "  Dora." 

If  in  nothing  else,  this  illness  has  been  a  blessing ;  draw- 
ing closer  together  the  father  and  daughter.  She  must 
have  been  thinking  so,  when  to-day  she  said  to  me : 

"  It  is  strange  how  many  mouthfuls  of  absolute  happiness 
one  sometimes  tastes  in  the  midst  of  trouble  "  adding — I 
can  see  her  attitude  as  she  talked,  standing  with  eyes  cast 
down,  mouth  sweet  and  smiling,  and  fingers  playing  with 
her  apron-tassels — a  trick  she  has — "that  she  now  felt  as 
if  she  should  never  be  afraid  of  trouble  any  more." 


A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE.  153 

'  That  also  is  compreliensible.  Any  thing  which  calls  out 
the  dormant  energies  of  the  character  must  do  a  woman 
good.  With  some  women,  to  be  good  and  to  be  happy  is 
one  and  the  same  thing. 

She  is  changed,  too,  I  can  see.  Pale  as  she  looks,  there 
is  a  softness  in  her  manner  and  a  sweet  composure  in  her 
face,  different  from  the  restlessness  I  once  noticed  there — 
the  fitful  irritabihty,  or  morbid  pain,  perceptible  at  times, 
though  she  tried  hard  to  disguise  both.  And  succeeded 
doubtless ;  in  all  eyes  but  mine. 

She  is  more  cheerful,  too,  than  she  ever  used  to  be ;  not 
restlessly  lively,  like  her  eldest  sister,  but  seeming  to  carry 
about  in  her  heart  a  well-spring  of  content,  which  bubbles 
out  refreshingly  upon  every  things  and  every  body  about 
her.  It  is  especially  welcome  in  the  sick-room,  where,  she 
knows,  our  chief  aim  is  to  keep  the  mind  at  ease,  and  the 
feeble  brain  in  absolute  rest.  I  could  smile,  remembering 
the  hours  we  have  spent — ^patient,  doctor,  and  nurse — in 
the  most  puerile  amusements,  and  altogether  dehcious  non- 
sense, since  Mr.  Johnston  became  convalescent. 

All  this  is  over  now.  I  knew  it  was.  I  sat  by  the  fire, 
watching  her  play  off  her  loving  jests  upon  her  father,  and 
prattle  with  him  childish-hke,  about  all  that  was  going  on 
down  stairs. 

"  You  little  quiz !"  he  cried  at  last.  "  Doctor,  this  girl  is 
growing — I  can't  say  witty — but  absolutely  mischievous." 

I  said,  talents  long  dormant  sometimes  appeared.  We 
might  yet  discover  in  Miss  Theodora  Johnston  the  most 
brilliant  wit  of  her  day. 

"  Dr.  Urquhart,  it's  a  shame !  How  can  you  laugh  at  me 
so  ?  But  I  don't  care.  You  are  all  the  better  for  having 
somebody  to  laugh  at.     You  know  you  are." 

I  did  know  it — only  too  well,  and  my  eyes  might  have 
betrayed  it,  for  hers  sank.  She  colored  a  little,  sat  down 
to  her  work,  and  sewed  on  silently,  thoughtfully,  for  a  good 
while. 

What  was  in  her  mind  ?  Was  it  pity  ?  Did  she  fancy 
she  had  hurt  me — ^touched  unwittingly  one  of  my  many 
sores  ?  She  knows  I  have  had  a  hard  life,  with  few  pleas- 
ures in  it ;  she  would  gladly  give  me  some ;  she  is  sorry 
for  me. 

Most  people's  compassion  is  worse  than  their  indifference ; 
but  hers  given  out  of  the  fullness  of  the  pure,  tender,  un- 
suspicious heart — I  can  bear  it.     I  can  be  grateful  for  it. 

G2 


154  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

On  this  first  evening  that  broke  the  uniformity  of  the 
sick-room,  we  thought  it  better,  she  and  I,  considering  the 
pecuharities  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  which  she  seems  to 
take  for  granted  I  am  aware  of,  and  can  make  allowance 
for — that  none  of  them  should  be  admitted  this  night.  A 
prohibition  not  likely  to  afflict  them  much. 

"  And  pray,  Miss  Dora,  how  do  you  mean  to  entertain 
the  doctor  and  me  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  give  you  a  large  dose  of  my  brilliant  conver- 
sation, and,  lest  it  become  too  exciting,  to  season  it  with  a 
little  reading,  out  of  something  that  neither  of  you  take 
the  smallest  interest  in,  and  will  be  able  to  go  to  sleep  over 
properly.     Poetry — most  likely." 

"Some  of  yours?" 

She  colored  deeply.  *  ".Hush,  papa,  I  thought  you  had 
forgotten — you  said  it  was  '  nonsense,'  you  know." 

"  Very  likely  it  was.  But  I  mean  to  give  it  another 
reading  some  clay.     Never  mind — nobody  heard." 

So  she  writes  poetry.  I  always  knew  she  was  very 
clever,  besides  bemg  well-educated.  Talented  women — 
modern  Corinnes — my  impression  of  them  was  rather  re- 
pulsive. But  she — that  soft,  shy  girl,  with  her  gay  sim- 
plicity, her  meek,  household  ways — 

I  said,  if  Miss  Theodora  were  going  to  read,  perhaps  she 
might  remember  she  had  once  promised  to  improve  my 
mind  with  a  course  of  German  literature.  There  was  a 
book  about  a  gentleman  of  my  own  name — Max — Max 
somethmg  or  other — 

"  Piccolomini.  You  have  not  forgotten  him !  What  a 
memory  you  have  for  little  things." 

She  thought  so  !  I  said,  if  she  considered  a  poor  doctor, 
accustomed  to  deal  more  with  bodies  than  souls,  could 
comprehend  the  sort  of  books  she  seemed  so  fond  of,  I 
would  like  to  hear  about  Max  Piccolomini. 

"  Certainly.     Only—" 

"  You  think  I  could  not  understand  it." 

"  I  never  thought  any  such  thing,"  she  cried  out  in  her 
old  abrupt  way,  and  went  out  of  the  room  immediately. 

The  book  she  fetched  was  a  little  dainty  one.  Perhajos 
it  had  been  a  gift.     I  asked  to  look  at  it. 

"  Can  you  read  German  ?" 

"  'Not  a  line."  For  my  few  words  of  conversational  for- 
eign tongues  have  been  learned  orally,  the  better  to  com- 
municate with  stray  patients  in  hospitals.     I  told  her  so. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  155 

"  I  am  very  ignorant,  as  you  must  have  long  since  found 
out,  Miss  Theodora," 

She  said  nothing,  but  began  taread.  At  first  translatmg 
line  by  hue ;  then  saying  a  written  translation  would  be  less 
trouble,  she  fetched  one.  It  was  in  her  handwriting — 
probably  her  own  doing. 

No  doubt  every  one,  except  such  an  unlearned  ass  as 
myself,  is  familiar  w^ith  the  story — historical,  I  believe  she 
said — how  a  yornig  soldier,  Max  Piccolomini,  fell  in  love 
w^ith  the  daughter  of  his  general,  Wallenstein,  who,  head- 
ing an  insurrection,  wished  the  youth  to  join  m,  promising 
him  the  girl's  hand.  There  is  one  scene  where  the  father 
tempts,  and  brmgs  the  daughter  to  tempt  him,  by  hope  of 
this  bhss,  to  turn  rebel ;  but  the  young  man  is  firm — the 
girl,  too,  when  he  appeals  to  her,  bids  him  keep  to  his  duty, 
and  renounce  his  love.  It  is  a  case  such  as  may  have  hap- 
pened— might  happen  in  these  days — were  modern  men 
and  women  capable  of  such  attachments.  =^omething  of 
the  sort  of  love  upon  which  Dallas  used  to  theorize  when 
we  were  boys,  always  winding  up  with  his  favorite  verse 
— ^how  strange  that  it  should  come  back  to  my  mind  now — 
''I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  mucli, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more," 

Max — odd  enough  the  name  sounded,  and  she  hesitated 
over  it  at  first  with  a  half  laughing  apology,  then,  forget- 
ting all  but  her  book,  it  came  out  naturally  and  sweetly — 
oh,  so  sweetly  sometimes — Max  died.  How,  I  do  not 
clearly  remember,  but  I  know  he  died,  and  never  married 
the  girl  he  loved ;  that  the  time  when  he  held  her  in  his 
arms,  and  kissed  her  before  her  father  and  them  all,  was 
the  last  time  they  ever  saw  one  another. 

She  read,  sometimes  hm^iedly  and  almost  inaudibly,  and 
then  just  like  the  people  who  were  speaking,  as  if  quite 
forgetting  herself  in  them.  I  do  not  think  she  even  recog- 
nized that  there  v/as  a  listener  in  the  room.  Perhaps  she 
thought,  because  I  sat  so  still,  that  I  did  not  hear  or  feel ; 
that  I,  Max  Urquhart,  have  altogether  forgotten  what  it  is 
to  be  young  and  to  love. 

When  she  ceased,  Mr.  Johnston  was  soundly  asleep ;  we 
both  sat  silent.  I  stretched  out  my  hand  for  the  written 
pages,  to  go  over  some  of  the  sentences  again ;  she  went 
on  reading  the  German  volume  to  herself  Her  face  was 
turned  away,  but  I  could  see  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  and 
the  smooth,  spiral  twist  of  her  hair  behind — I  suppose,  if 


156  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

untwisted,  it  would  reach  down  to  her  knees.  This  Ger- 
man girl,  TheMa,  might  have  had  just  such  hair ;  this  boy 
— this  Max — might  have  been  allowed  sometimes  to  touch 
it — reverently  to  kiss  it. 

:}c  *  *  sit  ♦  *  * 

I  was  interrupted  here.  A  case  at  the  hosj)ital ;  James 
McDermot — ^fever-Avard — cut  his  throat  in  a  fit  of  d.elirium. 
There  must  have  been  great  neglect  in  the  nurse  or  orderly, 
perhaps  in  more  than  they.  These  night  absences — this 
preoccupation — though  I  have  tried  earnestly  to  fulfill  all 
my  duties  ;  yet,  as  I  walked  back,  the  ghastly  figure  of  the 
dead  man  was  ever  before  me.  Have  I  not  a  morbid  con- 
science, which  revels  in  self-accusation?  Suppose  there 
was  one  who  knew  me  as  I  knew  myself — could  show  my- 
self unto  myself,  and  say,  "  Poor  soul,  'tis  nothing.  Forget 
thyself.     Think  of  another — thy  other  self — of  me." 

Why  recount  this,  one  of  the  countless  painful  incidents 
that  are  always  recurring  to  om-  profession  ?  Because, 
having  begun,  I  must  tell  you  all  that  happens  to  me,  as  a 
man  would,  coming  home  after  his  day's  labor  to  his — let 
me  write  down  the  word  steadily — his  imfe.  His  wife — 
nearer  to  him  than  any  mortal  thing — ^bone  of  his  bone  and 
flesh  of  his  flesh;  his  rest,  comfort,  and  delight — whom, 
more  than  almost  any  man,  a  doctor  requires,  seeing  that 
on  the  dark  side  of  human  life  his  path  must  continually 
He. 

Sometimes,  though,  bright  bits  come  across  us — such  as 
when  the  heavy  heart  is  relieved,  or  the  shadow  of  death 
lifted  from  ofl"  a  dwelhng ;  moments  when  the  doctor, 
much  to  his  own  conscious  humihation,  is  apt  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  angel  of  deliverance ;  seasons  when  he  is  glad 
to  linger  a  httle  amid  the  glow  of  happiness  he  has  been 
instrumental  in  bringing  before  he  turns  out  again  into  the 
shadows  of  his  appointed  way. 

And  such  will  always  be  this,  which  I  may  consider  the 
last  of  my  nights  at  Rockmomit.  They  would  not  hear  of 
my  leaving,  though  it  was  needless  to  sit  up.  And  when 
I  had  seen  Mr.  Johnston  safe  and  snug  for  the  night,  they 
insisted  on  my  joining  the  merry  supper-table,  where,  re- 
lieved now  from  all  care,  the  family  assembled.  The  family 
included,  of  course,  Mr.  Charteris.     I  was  the  only  stranger. 

They  did  not  treat  me  as  a  stranger— you  know  that. 
Sometimes  falling,  as  the  httle  party  naturally  did,  into 
two,  and  two,  and  two,  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  15'7 

were  conspiring  to  wrap  me  in  the  maddest  of  delusions — 
as  if  I  always  had  sat,  and  were  meant  to  sit  famiharly, 
brotherly,  at  that  family  table ;  as  if  my  old  solitude  were 
quite  over  and  gone,  and  that  I  should  never  be  alone  any 
more.  And,  over  all,  was  the  atmosphere  of  that  German 
loA^e-tale,  which  came  up  curiously  to  the  surface,  and 
caused  a  conversation,  which,  in  some  parts  of  it,  seems 
the  strangest  thing  of  all  that  strange  evening. 

It  was  Mrs.  Treherne  who  originated  it.  She  asked  her 
sister  what  had  we  been  doing  that  we  were  so  exceedingly 
quiet  up  staks  ? 

"  Reading — paj^a  wished  it."  And  being  farther  ques- 
tioned. Miss  Theodora  told  what  had  been  read. 

Mrs.  Treherne  burst  out  laughing  immoderately. 

It  would  hardly  be  expected  of  such  well-bred  and  amia- 
ble ladies,  but  I  have  often  seen  the  eldest  and  youngest 
sisters  annoy  her — the  second  one — in  some  feminine  way 
— men  would  never  think  of  doing  it,  or  guess  how  it  is 
done — sufficient  to  call  the  angry  blood  to  her  cheeks,  and^ 
cause  her  whole  manner  to  change  from  gentleness  into 
defiance.     It  was  so  now. 

"  I  do  not  see  any  thing  so  very  ridiculous  in  my  reading 
to  papa  out  of  any  book  I  choose." 

I  explained  that  I  myself  had  begged  for  this  one. 

"  Oh,  and  I'm  sure  she  was  delighted  to  oblige  you." 

"  I  was,"  she  said,  boldly ;  "  and  I  consider  that  any 
thing,  small  or  great,  which  either  I,  or  you,  or  Penelope 
can  do  to  obhge  Doctor  Urquhart,  we  ought  to  be  happy 
and  thankful  to  do  for  the  remainder  of  our  lives." 

Mrs.  Treherne  was  silenced.  And  here  Mr.  Chart eris — 
breaking  the  uncomfortable  pause — good-naturedly  began 
a  disquisition  on  the  play  in  question.  He  bore,  for  some 
time,  the  chief  part  in  a  literary  and  critical  conversation, 
of  which  I  did  not  hear  or  follow  much.  Then  the  ladies 
took  up  the  story  in  its  moral  and  personal  phase,  and 
talked  it  over  pretty  well. 

The  youngest  sister  was  voluble  against  it.  She  hated 
doleful  books  ;  she  liked  a  pleasant  ending,  where  the  peo- 
ple were  all  married  cheerfully  and  comfortably. 

It  was  suggested,  from  my  side  of  the  table,  that  this 
play  had  not  an  uncomfortable  ending,  though  the  lovers 
both  died. 

"What  an  odd  notion  of  comfort  Dora  has,"  said  Mr. 
Charteris. 


158  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  added  Mrs.  Treherne ;  "  for  if  they  hadn't 
died,  were  they  not  supposed  never  to  meet  again  ?  My 
dear  child,  how  do  you  intend  to  make  your  lover  happy  ? 
By  bidding  him  an  eternal  farewell,  allowing  him  to  get 
killed,  and  then  dying  on  his  tomb  ?" 

Every  body  laughed.  Treherne  said  he  was  thankful  his 
Lisa  was  not  of  her  sister's  mind. 

"  Ay,  Gus,  dear,  well  you  may !  Suppose  I  had  come 
and  said  to  you,  like  Dora's  heroine, '  My  dear  boy,  we  are 
very  fond  of  one  another,  but  we  can't  ever  be  married. 
It's  of  no  consequence.  ISTever  mind.  Give  me  a  kiss, 
and  good-by' — what  would  you  have  done,  eh,  Augustus  ?" 

"  Hanged  myself,"  replied  Augustus,  forcibly. 

"  If  you  did  not  think  better  of  it  while  searching  for  a 
cord,"  dryly  observed  Mr.  Charteris.  (I  have  for  various 
reasons  noticed  this  gentleman  rather  closely  of  late.) 
"'Dora's  theories  about  love  are  pretty  enough ;  but  too 
much  on  the  gossamer  style.  Poor  human  nature  requires 
a  little  warmer  clothing  than  these  '  sky  robes  of  iris  woof,' 
which  are  not  '  warranted  to  wear.'  " 

As  he  spoke,  I  saw  Miss  Johnston's  black  eyes  dart  over 
to  his  face  in  keen  observation,  but  he  did  not  see  them. 
Immediately  afterward  she  said : 

"  Francis  is  quite  right.  Dora's  heroics  do  her  no  good 
— ^nor  any  body ;  because  such  characters  do  not  exist,  and 
never  did.  Max  and  Thekla,  for  instance,  are  a  pair  of  lov- 
ers utterly  impossible  in  this  world." 

"  True,"  said  Mr.  Charteris,  "  even  aS  Komeo  and  Juliet 
are  impossible,  Shakspeare  himself  ov/ns, 

"  'These  violent  deliglits  have  violent  ends.' 
Had  Juliet  lived,  she  would  probably  not  by  force,  but  in 
the  most  legal,  genteel,  and  satisfactory  way,  have  been 
'  married  to  the  County  ;'  or,  supposing  she  had  got  off  safe 
to  Mantua,  obtained  parental  forgiveness,  and  returned  to 
set  up  house-keeping  as  Mrs.  R.  Montague,  depend  upon  it 
she  and  Romeo  would  have  wearied  of  one  another  in  a 
year,  quarreled,  parted,  and  she  might,  after  all,  have  con- 
soled herself  with  Paris,  who  seems  a  sweet-spoken,  pretty- 
behaved  young  gentleman  throughout.  Do  you  not  think 
so.  Doctor  Urquhail;  ?  that  is,  if  you  are  a  reader  of  Shak- 
speare." 

Which  he  apparently  thought  I  was  not.  I  answered, 
what  has  often  struck  me  about  this  play,  "that  Shak- 
speare only  meant  it  as  a  tale  of  boy  and  girl  passion. 


A  LTPE   FOR   A   LIFE.  159 

Whether  it  would  have  lasted,  or  grown  out  of  passion 
into  love  one  need  not  speculate,  any  more  than  the  poet 
does.  Enough,  that,  while  it  lasts,  it  is  a  true  and  beauti- 
ful picture  of  youthful  love — that  is,  youth's  ideal  of  love ; 
though  the  love  of  maturer  life  is  often  a  far  deeper,  high- 
er, and  better  thing." 

Here  Mrs.  Treherne,  bursting  into  one  of  her  hearty 
laughs,  accused  her  sister  of  havhig  "  turned  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart  poetical." 

It  is  painful  to  appear  a  fool,  even  when  a  lively  young 
woman  is  trying  to  make  you  do  so.  I  sat,  cruelly  con- 
scious how  little  I  have  to  say — ^how  like  an  awkward, 
dull  clod  I  often  feel — in  the  society  of  young  and  clever 
people,  when  I  heard  her  speaking  from  the  other  end  of 
the  table — I  mean  Miss  Theodora. 

"  Lisabel,  you  are  talMng  of  what  you  do  not  understand. 
You  never  did,  and  never  will  understand  my  Max  and 
Thekla,  any  more  than  Francis  there,  though  he  once 
thought  it  so  fine,  when  he  was  teaching  Penelope  Ger- 
man, a  few  years  ago." 

"  Dora,  your  excitement  is  imlady-like." 

"  I  do  not  care,"  she  answered,  turning  upon  her  elder 
sister  with  flashmg  eyes.  "  To  sit  by  quietly  and  hear  such 
doctrines,  is  worse  than  milady-like — unwoman-like !  You 
two  gnls  may  think  what  you  please  on  the  matter ;  but  I 
know  what  I  have  always  thought — and  think  still." 

"  Pray  will  you  indulge  us  with  your  creed  ?"  cried  Mr. 
Charteris. 

She  hesitated — ^her  cheeks  burned  like  fire — ^but  still  she 
spoke  out  bravely. 

"  I  believe,  spite  of  all  you  say,  that  there  is,  not  only  in 
books,  but  in  the  world,  such  a  thing  as  love ;  unselfish, 
faithful,  and  true,  like  that  of  my  Thekla  and  my  Max.  I 
beheve  that  such  a  love — a  right  love — teaches  people  to 
think  of  the  right  first,  and  themselves  afterward;  and, 
therefore,  if  necessary,  they  could  bear  to  part  for  any 
number  of  years — or  even  forever." 

"Bless  us  all;  I  wouldn't  give  two  farthings  for  a  man 
who  would  not  do  any  thing — do  wrong  even — for  my 
sake." 

"And  I,  Lisabel,  should  esteem  a  man  a  selfish  coward, 
whom  I  might  pity,  but  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  love 
him  again,  if  in  any  way  he  did  wrong  for  mine." 

From  my  corner,  whither  I  had  gone  and  sat  down  a 


160  A  LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

little  out  of  the  circle,  I  saw  this  young  face — flashing,  full 
of  a  new  expression.  Dallas,  when  he  talked  sometimes, 
used  to  have  just  such  a  light  in  his  eyes — just  such  a  glo- 
ry streaming  from  all  his  features ;  but  then  he  was  a  boy, 
and  this  was  a  Avoman.  Ay,  one  felt  her  womanhood,  the 
passion  and  power  of  it,  with  all  its  capabilities  for  either 
blessing  or  maddening,  in  the  very  core  of  one's  being. 

The  others  chatted  a  little  more,  and  then  I  heard  her 
speaking  again. 

"  Yes,  Lisabel,  you  are  quite  right ;  I  do  not  think  it  of 
so  very  much  importance,  whether  people  who  are  very 
deeply  attached,  ever  live  to  be  married  or  not.  In  one 
sense  they  are  married  already,  and  nothing  can  come  be- 
tween them,  so  long  as  they  love  one  another." 

This  seemed  an  excellent  joke  to  the  Trehernes,  and 
drew  a  remark  or  two  from  Mr.  Charteris,  to  which  she 
refused  to  reply. 

"  No ;  you  put  me  in  a  passion,  and  forced  me  to  speak ; 
but  I  have  done  now.  I  shall  "not  argue  the  point  any 
more." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  her  little  hands  nervously 
clutched  and  plaited  the  table-cloth;  but  she  sat  in  her 
place,  never  moving  features  or  eyes.  Gradually  the  burn- 
ing in  her  cheeks  faded,  and  she  grew  excessively  pale; 
but  no  one  seemed  to  notice  her.  They  were  too  full  of 
themselves. 

I  had  time  to  learn  the  picture  by  heart,  every  line ;  this 
little  figure  sitting  by  the  table,  bent  head,  drooping  shoul- 
ders, and  loose  white  sleeves  shading  the  two  hands,  which 
were  crushed  so  tightly  together,  that  when  she  stirred  I 
saw  the  finger-marks  of  one  imprinted  on  the  other.  What 
could  she  have  been  thinking  of? 

"  Miss  Dora,  please." 

It  was  only  a  servant,  saying  her  father  wished  to  speak 
to  her  before  he  went  to  sleep. 

"  Say  I  am  comifig."  She  rose  quickly,  but  turned  be- 
fore she  reached  the  door.  "  I  may  not  see  you  again  be- 
fore you  go.     Good-night,  Doctor  IJrquhart." 

We  have  said  good-night,  and  shaken  hands,  every  night 
for  three  weeks.  I  know  I  have  done  my  duty ;  no  linger- 
ing, tender  clasping  what  I  had  no  right  to  clasp  ;  a  mere 
good-night,  and  shake  of  the  hand.     But,  to-night  ? 

I  did  not  say  a  word — I  did  not  look  at  her.  Yet  the 
touch  of  that  Httle  cold,  passive  hand  has  never  left  mine 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  161 

since.  If  I  lay  my  hand  down  here,  on  this  table,  it  seems 
to  creep  into  it  and  nestle  there ;  if  I  let  it  go,  it  comes 
back  again ;  if  I  crush  my  fingers  down  upon  it,  though 
there  is  nothing,  I  feel  it  still — ^feel  it  through  every  nerve 
and  pulse,  in  heart,  soul,  body,  and  brain. 

This  is  the  merest  hallucmation,  like  some  of  the  spectral 
illusions  I  have  been  subject  to  at  times ;  the  same  which 
made* Coleridge  once  say  "he  had  seen  too  many  ghosts  to 
believe  in  them." 

Let  me  gather  up  my  faculties. 

I  am  sitting  in  my  hut.  There  is  no  fire — no  one  ever 
thinks  of  lighting  a  fire  for  me,  of  course,  unless  I  specially 
order  it.  The  room  is  chill,  warning  me  that  winter  is  nigh 
at  hand;  disorderly — no  one  ever  touches  my  goods  and 
chattels,  and  I  have  been  too  much  from  home  lately  to  in- 
stitute any  arrangement  myself.  All  sohtary,  too ;  even 
my  cat,  who  used  to  be  the  one  living  thing  lingering  about 
me,  marching  daintily  over  my  books,  or  stealing  up,  purr- 
ing, to  lay  her  head  ujDon  my  knee,  even  my  cat,  weary  of 
my  long  absence,  has  disappeared  to  my  next-door  neigh- 
bor.    I  am  quite  alone. 

Well,  such  is  the  natural  position  of  a  man  without  near 
kindred,  who  has  reached  my  years  and  has  not  married. 
He  has  no  right  to  expect  aught  else  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

I  rode  home  from  Rockmount  two  hours  ago,  leaving  a 
still  hvely  group  sitting  around  the  fire  in  the  parlor — Miss 
Johnston  on  her  sofa,  Avith  Mr.  Charteris  beside  her ;  Tre- 
herne  sitting  opposite,  with  his  arm  round  his  wife's 
waist. 

And  up  stairs,  I  know  how  things  will  look — ^the  shad- 
owy bed-chamber,  the  httle  white  china  lamp  on  the  table, 
and  one  curtain  half-looped  back,  so  that  the  old  man  may 
just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  bending  figure,  reading  to  him 
the  Evening  Psalms ;  or  else  she  will,  by  this  time,  have 
said  "  Good-night,  papa,"  and  gone  away  to  the  upper  part 
of  the  house,  of  which  I  know  nothing,  and  have  never 
seen.  Therefore  I  can  only  fancy  her,  as  I  one  night  hap- 
pened to  see,  going  up  stairs,  candle  in  hand,  softly,  step  by 
step,  as  saintly  souls  slip  away  into  paradise,  and  Ave  beloAV, 
though  we  would  cling  to  the  hem  of  their  garments,  crush 
our  lips  in  the  very  print  of  their  feet,  can  neither  hold 
them,  nor  dare  beseech  them  to  stay. 

Oh,  if  I  Avere  only  dead,  that  you  might  have  this  letter 
— ^might  know,  feel,  comprehend  all  these  things. 


162  A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE. 

I  have  been  "  doing  wrong."  I  owe  it  to  myself,  to  more 
than  myself,  not  to  yield  to  weak  lamentations  or  unmanly 
bursts  of  phrensy  against  an  inevitable  fate. 

Is  it  inevitable  ? 

Before  beginning  to  write  to-night,  for  two  hours  I  sat 
arguing  with  myself  this  question ;  viewing  the  circum- 
stances of  both  parties,  for  such  a  question  necessarily  in- 
cludes both,  with  a  calmness  which  I  believe  even  I  can  at- 
tain, when  the  matter  involves  not  myself  alone.  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is  inevitable. 

When  you  reach  these  my  years,  when  you  have  experi- 
enced all  those  changes  which  you  now  dream  over  and 
theorize  upon  in  your  innocent,  unconscious  heart,  you  will 
also  see  that  my  judgment  was  right. 

To  seek  and  sue  a  woman's  yet  unwon  love  implies  the 
telhng  her,  when  won,  the  whole  previous  history  of  her 
lover ;  concealing  nothing,  fair  or  foul,  which  does  not  com- 
promise any  other  than  himself.  This  confidence  she  has 
a  right  to,  and  the  man  who  withholds  it  is  either  a  cow- 
ard in  himself,  or  doubts  the  woman  of  his  choice,  as,  should 
he  so  doubt  his  wife,  woe  to  him  and  to  her !  To  carry 
into  the  sanctuary  of  a  true  wife's  breast  some  accursed 
thing  which  must  be  forever  hidden  in  his  own,  has  always 
seemed  to  me  one  of  the  blackest  treasons  against  both 
honor  and  love  of  which  a  man  could  be  capable. 

Could  I  tell  my  wife,  or  the  woman  whom  I  would  fain 
teach  to  love  me,  my  whole  history  ?  And  if  I  did,  would 
it  not  close  the  door  of  her  heart  eternally  against  me  ?  or, 
supposing  it  was  too  late  for  that,  and  she  already  loved 
me,  would  it  not  make  her,  for  my  sake,  miserable  for  life  ? 
I  believe  it  would. 

On  this  account,  even,  things  are  inevitable. 

There  is  another  reason;  whether  it  comes  second  or 
first,  in  my  arguments  with  myself,  I  do  not  know.  When 
a  man  has  vowed  a  vow,  dare  he  break  it  ?  There  is  a  cer- 
tain vow  of  mine,  which,  did  I  marry,  micst  be  broken. 

'No  man  in  his  senses,  or  possessing  the  commonest  feel- 
ings of  justice  and  tenderness,  would  give  his  name  to  a 
beloved  woman,  with  the  possibility  of  children  to  inherit 
it,  and  then  bring  upon  each  and  all  of  them  the  end^  which 
I  have  all  my  life  resolutely  contemplated  as  a  thing  neces- 
sary to  be  done,  either  immediately  before  my  death,  or 
after  it. 

Therefore,  also,  it  is  inevitable. 


A   LIFE   FOE    A    LIFE.  163 

That  word — ^inevitable — always  calms  me.  It  is  the  will 
of  God.  If  He  had  meant  otherwise,  He  would  have  found 
out  a  w^aj — perhaps  by  sending  me  some  good  woman  to 
love  me,  as  men  are  loved  sometimes,  but  not  such  men  as  I. 
There  is  no  fear — or  hope,  which  shall  I  say  ? — of  any  one 
ever  loving  me. 

Sleep,  child !  You  are  fast  asleep  by  this  hour,  I  am 
sure ;  you  once  said  you  always  fall  asleep  the  instant  your 
head  touches  the  pillow.  Blessed  pillow !  precious,  tender, 
lovely  head ! 

"  Good-night."     Sleep  well,  happy,  ignorant  child. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HEK   STORY. 

"  FnnsHED  to-morrow."  What  a  lifetime  seems  to  have 
elapsed  since  I  wrote  that  line ! 

A  month  and  four  days  ago,  I  sat  here,  waiting  for  papa 
and  Penelope  to  come  home  from  their  dinner  party.  Try- 
ing to  be  cheerful — wondering  why  I  was  not  so ;  yet  with 
my  heart  as  heavy  as  lead  all  the  time. 

I  think  it  will  never  be  quite  so  heavy  any  more.  E" ev- 
er weighed  down  by  imaginary  wrongs  and  ideal  woes. 
It  has  known  real  anguish  and  been  taught  wisdom. 

We  have  been  very  nearly  losing  our  beloved  father. 
Humanly  speaking,  we  should  have  lost  him  but  for  Doc- 
tor Urquhart,  to  whose  great  skill  and  unremitting  care. 
Doctor  Black  himself  confessed  yesterday,  papa  has,  under 
God,  owed  his  life. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  write  down  here  the  particu- 
lars of  dear  papa's  accident  and  the  illness  which  followed, 
every  day  of  which  seems  at  once  so  vivid  and  so  unreal. 
I  shall  never  forget  it  while  I  live,  and  yet,  even  now,  am 
afraid  to  recall  it ;  though  at  the  time  I  seemed  afraid  of 
nothing — strong  enough  for  every  thing.  I  felt — or  it  now 
appears  as  though  I  must  have  done  so — as  I  did  on  one 
sunshiny  afternoon  at  a  picnic  about  a  dozen  years  ago, 
when  I,  following  Colin  Granton,  walked  round  the  top  of 
a  circular  rock,  on  a  ledge  two  feet  wide,  a  sloping  ledge 
of  short  slippery  grass;  where,  if  v*^e  had  slipped,  it  was 
about  ninety  perpendicular  feet  to  fall. 

I  shudder  to  think  of  that  font  even  now;  and  telling  it 


164  A  LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

to  Doctor  Urqnliart  in  illustration  of  what  I  am  here  men- 
tioning, namely,  the  quiet  unconsciousness  with  which  one 
sometimes  passes  through  exceeding  great  danger,  he  too 
shuddered,  turned  deadly  white.  I  never  saw  a  strong 
man  lose  color  so  suddenly  and  completely  as  he  does  at 
times. 

Can  he  be  really  strong?  Those  nights  of  watching 
must  have  told  upon  his  health,  which  is  so  valuable ;  doubly 
valuable  to  one  in  his  profession.  We  must  try  to  make 
him  take  care  of  himself,  and  allow  us — ^Rockmount  gener- 
ally— to  take  care  of  him.  Though,  since  his  night- watch- 
ings  ceased,  he  has  not  given  us  much  opportunity,  having 
.  only  paid  his  due  medical  visit  once  a  day,  and  scarcely 
staid  ten  minutes  afterward ;  until  to-day,  when,  by  papa's 
express  desire,  Augustus  drove  over  and  fetched  him  to 
dinner. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  write  down  here  how  very  much 
better  I  like  my  brother-in-law.  His  thorough  goodness  of 
nature,  his  kindly  cheering  ways,  and  his  unaffected,  if  rath- 
er obstreperous  love  for  his  wife,  which  is  reflected,  as  it 
should  be,  upon  every  creature  belonging  to  her  make  it 
impossible  not  to  like  him.  I  am  heartily  glad  he  has  sold 
out,  so  that  even  if  war  breaks  out  again,  there  will  be  no 
chance  of  his  being  ordered  off"  on  foreign  service ;  though 
in  that  case  he  declares  he  should  feel  himself  in  honor 
bound  to  volunteer.  But  Lisabel  only  laughs ;  she  knows 
better. 

Still,  I  trust  there  may  be  no  occasion.  War,  viewed  in 
the  abstract,  is  sufiiciently  terrible ;  but  when  it  comes 
home,  when  one's  self  and  one's  own  are  bound  up  in  the 
chances  of  it,  the  case  is  altogether  changed.  Some  mis- 
fortunes contemplated  as  personal  possibilities  seem  more 
than  human  nature  could  bear.  How  the  mothers,  sisters, 
wives,  have  borne  them  all  through  this  war  is — 

My  head  turned  dizzy  here,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave 
off  writing  and  lie  down.  I  have  not  felt  very  strong  late- 
ly— that  is,  not  bodily  strong.  In  my  heart  I  have — thor- 
oughly calm,  happy,  and  thankful — as  God  knows  we  have 
all  need  to  be,  since  he  has  spared  our  dear  father,  never 
loved  so  dearly  as  now.  But  physically  I  am  rather  tired 
and  weak,  as  if  I  would  fain  rest  my  head  somewhere  and 
be  taken  care  of,  if  there  were  any  body  to  do  it,  which 
there  is  not.  Since  I  can  remember,  nobody  ever  took 
care  of  me. 


A   LIFE   FOE  A   LIFE.  165 

While  writing  this  last  line  old  Mrs.  Cartwright  came  up 
to  bring  me  some  arrow-root  with  wine  in  it  for  my  supper, 
entreating  me  to  go  to  bed  "  like  a  good  child."  She  said 
"the  doctor"  told  her  to  look  after  me;  but  she  should 
have  done  it  herself,  anyhow.  She  is  a  good  old  body; 
I  wish  we  could  find  out  any  thing  about  her  poor  lost 
daughter. 

What  was  I  writing  about  ?  Oh,  the  history  of  to-day, 
where  I  take  up  the  thread  of  my  journal,  leaving  the 
whole  interval  between  a  blank.  I  could  not  write  about 
it  if  I  would. 

I  did  not  go  to  church  with  them  this  morning,  feeling 
sure  I  could  not  walk  so  far,  and  some  one  ought  to  stay 
with  papa.  So  the  girls  went,  and  Doctor  Urquhart  also, 
at  which  papa  seemed  just  a  httle  disappointed,  he  having 
counted  on  a  long  mornmg's  chat. 

I  never  knew  papa  attach  himself  to  any  man  before,  or 
take  such  exceeding  delight  in  any  one's  comjDany.  He 
said  the  other  day,  when  Augustus  annoyed  him  about 
some  trifle  or  other,  that  "  he  wished  he  might  have  chosen 
his  own  son-in-law;  Lisabel  had  far  better  have  married 
Doctor  Urquhart." 

Our  Lisabel  and  Doctor  Urquhart!  I  could  not  help 
laughing.  Day  and  night — ^fire  and  water  would  have  best 
described  their  union. 

Penelope  now,  though  she  has  abused  him  so  much — but 
that  was  Francis's  fault — would  have  suited  him  a  deal 
better.  They  are  more  friendly  than  they  used  to  be ;  in- 
deed, he  is  on  good  terms  with  all  Rockmount.  We  feel, 
every  one  of  us,  I  trust,  that  our  obligations  to  him  are  of 
a  kind  of  which  we  never  can  acquit  ourselves  while  we  live. 

This  great  grief  has  been  in  many  ways,  like  most  afflic- 
tions, "a  blessing  in  disguise."  It  has  drawn  us  all  to- 
gether, as  nothing  but  trouble  ever  does,  as  I  did  not  think 
any  thing  ever  would,  so  queer. a  family  are  we.  But  we 
are  improving.  We  do  not  now  shut  ourselves  up  in  our 
rooms,  hidiDg  each  in  her  hole  like  a  selfish  bear  until  feed- 
ing time — we  assemble  in  the  parlor — we  sit  and  talk  round 
papa's  study-chair.  There,  this  morning  after  church,  we 
held  a  convocation  and  confabulation  before  papa  came 
down. 

And,  strange  to  say — almost  the  first  time  such  a  thing 
ever  happened  in  ours,  though  a  clergyman's  family — we 
talked  about  the  church  and  the  sermon. 


166  A   LIFE   FOE    A    LIFE. 

It  was  preached  by  the  young  man  whom  papa  has  been 
obhged  to  take  as  cm-ate,  and  who,  Penelope  said,  she 
feared  would  never  suit,  if  he  took  such  eccentric  texts 
and  preached  such  out-of-the-way  sermons  as  the  one  this 
morning.  I  asked  what  it  was  about^  and  was  answered, 
"  the  cities  of  refuge." 

I  fear  I  do  not  know  my  Bible — the  historic  portion  of 
it — so  well  as  I  might ;  for  I  scandalized  Penelope  exceed, 
ingly  by  inquiring  what  were  "  the  cities  of  refuge."  She 
declared  any  child  in  her  school  would  have  been  better 
acquainted  with  the  Old  Testament,  and  I  had  it  at  my 
tongue's  end  to  say  that  a  good  many  of  her  children 
seemed  far  too  glibly  and  irreverently  acquainted  with  the 
Old  Testament ;  for  I  once  overheard  a  knot  of  them  doing 
the  little  drama  of  Elijah,  the  mocking  children,  and  the 
bears  in  the  wood,  to  the  confusion  of  our  poor  bald-headed 
organist,  and  their  own  uproarious  delight,  especially  the 
two  boys  Avho  enacted  the  bears.  But  'tis  Avicked  to  tease 
our  good  Penelope ;  at  least,  I  think  it  wicked  now. 

So  I  said  nothing;  but  after  the  sermon  had  been  well 
talked  over  as  "  extraordinary,"  "  unheard  of  in  our  church," 
"  such  a  mixing  of  ]3olitics  and  religion,  and  bringing  up 
every-day  subjects  into  the  pulpit" — for  it  seems  he  had  al- 
luded to  some  question  of  capital  puiiishment,  which  now 
fills  the  newspapers — I  took  an  opportunity  of  asking  Doc- 
tor Urquhart  what  the  sermon  really  had  been  about.  I 
can  often  speak  to  him  of  things  which  I  never  should 
dream  of  discussing  with  my  sisters,  or  even  papa;  for, 
w^hatever  the  subject  is,  he  will  always  listen,  answer,  ex- 
plain— either  laughing  away  my  follies,  or  talking  to  me 
seriously  and  kindly. 

This  time,  though,  he  was  not  so  patient;  asked  me, 
abruptly,  "  Why  I  wanted  to  know  ?" 

"  About  the  sermon  ?  From  harmless  curiosity ;  or, 
rather" — ^for  I  would  not  wish  him  to  think  that  in  any 
religious  matter  I  was  guided  by  no  higher  motive  than 
curiosity — "  because  I  doubt  Penelope's  judgment  of  the 
curate.     She  is  rather  harsh  sometimes." 

"Is  she?" 

"  Will  you  find  for  me" — and  I  took  out  of  my  pocket 
my  little  Bible,  which  I  had  been  reading  in  the  garden — 
"  about  the  cities  of  refuge  ? — that  is,  unless  you  dishke  to 
talk  on  the  subject." 

"  Who — I — what  made  you  suppose  so  ?" 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  167 

I  replied  candidly,  his  own  manner,  while  they  were 
arguing  it. 

"  You  must  not  mind  iity  manners — it  is  not  kind — ^it  is 
not  friendly."  And  then  he  begged  my  pardon,  saying  he 
knew  he  often  spoke  more  rudely  to  me  than  to  any  one  else, 

If  he  does  it  harms  me  not.  He  must  have  so  many 
causes  of  anxiety  and  irritation,  which  escape  by  expres- 
sion. I  wish  he  would  express  them  a  little  more,  indeed. 
One  could  bear  to  be  really  scolded  if  it  did  him  any  good  ♦, 
but,  of  course,  I  should  have  let  the  theological  question 
slip  by,  had  he  not,  some  minutes  after,  referred  to  it  him^ 
self.  We  were  standing  outside  the  window;  there  was 
no  one  within  hearing;  indeed,  he  rarely  talks  very  seri^ 
ously  unless  he  and  I  happen  to  be  alone. 

"  Did  you  think  as  they  do — your  sisters,  I  mean — ^that 
the  Mosaic  law  is  still  our  law — an  eye  for  an  eye — a  tooth 
for  a  tooth — a  life  for  a  life — and  so  on  ?" 

I  said  I  did  not  quite  understand  him. 

"It  was  the  subject  of  the  sermon.  "Whether  he  who 
takes  life  forfeits  his  own.  The  law  of  Moses  enacted  this. 
Even  the  chance  murderer,  the  man  guilty  of  manslaughter, 
as  we  should  term  it  now,  was  not  safe  out  of  the  bounds 
of  the  three  cities  of  refuge.  The  avenger  of  blood  '  finding 
him'  might  '  slay  him.' " 

I  asked  what  he  thought  was  meant  by  "  the  avenger  of 
blood  ?"     Was  it  divine  or  human  retribution  ? 

"  I  can  not  tell.  How  should  I  know  ?  Why  do  yoi^ 
question  me  ?" 

I  might  have  said.  Because  I  liked  to  talk  to  him,  and 
hear  him  talk ;  because,  in  many  a  perplexed  subject  over 
which  I  had  been  wearying  myself,  his  opinion  had  guided 
me  and  set  me  right.  I  did  hint  something  of  the  kind, 
but  he  seemed  not  to  hear  or  heed  it,  and  continued : 

"  Do  you  think,  with  the  minister  of  this  morning,  that, 
except  in  very  rare  cases,  we — we.  Christians,  have  no  right 
to  exact  a  life  for  a  life  ?  Or  do  you  believe,  on  religious 
as  well  as  rational  grounds,  that  every  man-slayer  ought 
inevitably  to  be  hanged  ?" 

I  have  often  puzzled  over  that  question,  which  Doctor 
Urquhart  evidently  felt  as  much  as  I  did.  Truly,  many  a 
time  have  I  turned  sick  at  the  hangings  which  I  have  had 
to  read  to  papa  in  the  newspapers ;  have  wakened  at  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  counted,  minute  by  minute,  some 
wretched  convict's  last  hour,  till  the  whde  scene  grew  so 


168  A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE. 

• 

vivid  that  the  execution  seemed  more  of  a  mm'der  than  the 
original  crime  of  which  it  was  the  expiation.  But  still,  to 
say  that  there  ought  to  be  no  capital  punishments !  I  could 
not  tell.  I  only  repeated,  softly,  words  that  came  into  my 
mind  at  that  instant. 

'•'■  For  we  know  that  no  ^nurderer  hath  eternal  life  in 
him.-" 

"  But  if  he  were  not  a  willful  murderer  ?  if  life  were 
taken — let  us  suppose  such  a  case — in  violent  passion,  or 
under  circumstances  which  made  the  man  not  himself;  if 
his  crime  were  repented  of  and  atoned  for  in  every  possible 
way — the  lost  life  repurchased  by  his  own — not  by  dying, 
but  by  the  long  torment  of  living  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  could  well  imagine  a  convict's  exist- 
ence, or  that  of  one  convicted  in  his  own  conscience — a 
duelist,  for  instance — far  more  terrible  than  death  upon  the 
scaffold." 

"  You  are  right ;  I  have  seen  such  cases." 

ISTo  doubt  he  has,  since,  as  an  officer  once  told  me,  the 
army  still  holds  dueling  to  be  the  necessary  defense  of  a 
gentleman's  "  honor."  The  recollections  aroused  were  ap- 
parently very  sore — so  much  so  that  I  suggested  our  chang- 
ing the  subject,  which  seemed  both  painful  and  unprofit- 
able. 

"  Xot  quite.  Besides,  would  you  quit  a  truth  because  it 
happened  to  be  painful  ?     That  is  not  like  you." 

"  I  hope  not." 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence,  he  continued :  "  This  is  a 
question  I  have  thought  over  deeply.  I  have  my  own 
opinion  concernmg  it,  and  I  know  that  of  most  men ;  but  I 
should  like  to  hear  a  woman's — a  Christian  woman's.  Tell 
me,  do  you  believe  the  avenger  of  blood  walks  through  the 
Christian  world  as  through  the  land  of  Israel,  requiring 
retribution ;  that  for  blood-shedding,  as  for  all  other  crimes, 
there  is  in  this  world,  whatever  there  may  be  in  another, 
expiation,  but  no  pardon  ?  Think  well,  answer  slowly,  for 
it  is  a  momentous  question." 

"  I  know  that — the  one  question  of  our  times." 

Doctor  Urquhart  bent  his  head  without  replying.  He 
hardly  could  speak ;  I  never  saw  him  so  terribly  in  earnest. 
His  agitation  roused  me  from  the  natural  shyness  I  have  in 
lifting  up  my  own  voice  and  setting  forth  my  own  girlish 
opinion  on  topics  of  which  every  one  has  a  right  to  think, 
but  very  few  to  speak. 


A  LITE   FOE  A   LIFE.  169 

"  I  believe  that  in  the  Almighty's  gradual  teaching  of 
His  creatures,  a  Diviner  than  Moses  brought  to  us  a  higher 
law,  in  which  the  sole  expiation  required  is  penitence  with 
obedience:  ^Repent  ye?  'Go  and  sin  no  more.''  It  ap- 
pears to  me,  so  far  as  I  can  judge  and  read  here" — my  Bi- 
ble was  still  in  my  hand — "  that  throughout  the  New,  and  in 
many  parts  of  the  Old  Testament,  runs  one  clear  doctrine, 
namely,  that  any  sin,  however  great,  being  repented  of  and 
foi-saken,  is  by  God,  and  ought  to  be  by  man,  altogether 
pardoned,  blotted  out,  and  done  away." 

"  God  bless  you !" 

For  the  second  time  he  said  to  me  those  words — said 
them  twice  over,  and  left  me.  Rather  abruptly ;  but  he  is 
sometimes  abrupt  when  thinking  deeply  of  any  thing. 

Thus  ended  our  little  talk ;  yet  it  left  a  pleasant  impres- 
sion. True,  the  subject  was  strange  enough;  my  sisters 
might  have  been  shocked  at  it ;  and  at  my  freedom  in  ask- 
ing and  giving  opinions.  But  oh !  the  blessing  it  is  to  have 
a  friend  to  whom  one  can  speak  fearlessly  on  any  subject ; 
with  whom  one's  deepest  as  well  as  one's  most  foohsh 
thoughts  come  out  simply  and  safely.  Oh,  the  comfort — 
the  inexpressible  comfort  of  feeling  safe  with  a  person — 
having  neither  to  weigh  thoughts  nor  measure  words,  but 
pouring  them  all  right  out,  just  as  they  are,  chaff  and  grain 
together;  certain  that  a  faithful  hand  will  take  and  sift 
them,  keep  what  is  worth  keeping,  and  then  with  the  breath 
of  kindness  blow  the  rest  away. 

Somebody  must  have  done  a  good  deal  of  the  winnowing 
business  this  afternoon ;  for  in  the  course  of  it  I  gave  him 
as  much  nonsense  as  any  reasonable  man  could  stand — even 
such  an  ultra-reasonable  man  as  Doctor  Urquhart.  Papa 
said  once,  that  she  was  "  taking  too  great  liberty  of  speech 
with  our  good  friend,  the  doctor — ^that  foohsh  httle  Dora ;" 
but  foohsh  little  Dora  knows  well  enough  what  she  is 
about — when  to  be  siUy  and  when  to  be  wise.  She  be- 
lieves in  her  heart  that  there  are  some  people  to  whom  it 
does  great  good  to  be  dragged  down  from  their  heights 
of  wisdom,  and  forced  to  talk  and  smile,  mitil  the  cloud 
wears  off,  and  the  smile  becomes  permanent — grows  into  a 
sunshine  that  warms  every  one  else  all  through.  Oh,  if  he 
had  had  a  happy  life — if  Dallas  had  lived — this  Dallas,  whom 
I  often  think  about,  and  seem  to  know  quite  well — what  a 
cheerful,  blithe  nature  his  would  have  been ! 

Just  before  tea,  when  papa  was  taking  his  sleep,  Doctor 
H 


170  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Urquhart  proposed  that  we  should  all  go  for  a  walk.  Pe- 
nelope excused  herself;  besides,  she  thinks  it  wrong  to  walk 
out  on  a  Sunday ;  but  Lisabel  and  Augustus  were  very  glad 
to  go.  So  was  I,  havmg  never  been  beyond  the  garden  since 
papa's  illness. 

K I  try  to  remember  all  the  trivial  incidents  of  to-day,  at 
full,  length,  it  is  because  it  has  been  such  an  exceedingly 
happy  day ;  to  preserve  which  from  the  chances  of  this  mor- 
tal life,  "  the  sundry  and  manifold  changes  of  this  world," 
as  the  prayer  says,  I  here  write  down  the  account  of  it. 

How  vague,  how  incompatible  with  the  humdrum  tenor 
of  our  quiet  days  at  Rockmount  that  collect  used  to  sound ! 

'-'-That  amid  the  sundry  and  manifold  changes  of  this 
worlds  our  hearts  may  surely  there  hefixed^  where  true  joys 
are  to  be  founds  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,  Amen" 
"Now,  as  if  newly  understanding  it,  I  also  repeat,  "Amen." 

We  started,  Lisabel,  Augustus,  Doctor  Urquhart,  and  I. 
"We  went  through  the  village,  down  the  moorland  road,  to 
the  ponds,  which  Augustus  wanted  to  examine,  with  a  view 
to  wild-duck  shooting,  next,  or,  rather,  I  might  say,  this 
winter,  for  Christmas  is  coming  close  upon  us,  though  the 
weather  is  still  so  mild. 

Lisa  and  her  husband  walked  on  first,  and  quickly  left  us 
far  behind ;  for,  not  having  been  out  for  so  long,  except  the 
daily  stroll  round  the  garden,  which  Doctor  Urquhart  had 
insisted  upon,  the  fresh  air  seemed  to  turn  me  dizzy.  I 
managed  to  stumble  on  through  the  village,  keeping  up 
talk,  too,  for  Doctor  Urquhart  hardly  said  any  thing,  until 
we  came  out  upon  the  open  moor,  bright,  breezy,  sunshiny. 
Then  I  felt  a  choking — a  longing  to  cry  out  or  sob — ^my 
head  swam  round  and  round. 

"  Are  you  wearied  ?  you  look  as  if  you  were."  "  Will 
you  like  to  take  my  arm  ?"  "  Sit  down — sit  down  on  this 
stone — ^my  child !" 

I  heard  these  sentences  distinctly,  one  after  the  other, 
but  could  not  answer.  I  felt  my  bonnet-strings  untied,  and 
the  wind  blowing  on  my  face — ^then  all  grew  light  again, 
and  I  looked  round. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened ;  you  will  be  well  in  a  minute  or 
two.  I  only  wonder  that  you  have  kept  up  so  bravely, 
and  are  so  strong." 

This  I  heard  too — ^in  a  cheerful,  kind  voice— and  soon 
after  I  became  quite  myself,  but  ready  to  cry  with  vexation, 
or  something,  I  don't  know  what. 


^A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  171 

"  You  -will  not  tell  any  body  ?"  I  entreated. 

"  N"o,  not  any  body,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  if  turning  faint 
was  such  a  crime.  Now,  you  can' walk?  Only  not  alone, 
just  at  present,  if  you  please." 

I  do  not  marvel  at  the  almost  unhmited  power  which, 
Augustus  says.  Doctor  Urquhart  has  over  his  patients.  A 
true  physician — not  only  of  bodies,  but  souls. 

We  walked  on,  I  holding  his  arm.  For  a  moment,  I  was 
half  afraid  of  Lisabel's  laugh,  and  the  silly  etiquette  of  our 
neighborhood,  which  holds  that  if  a  lady  and  gentleman 
walk  arm-in-arm  they  must  be  going  to  be  married.  Then 
I  forgot  both,  and  only  thought  what  a  comfort  it  was  in 
one's  weakness  to  have  an  arm  to  lean  on,  and  one  that  you 
knew,'you  felt,  was  not  miwilling  to  have  you  resting  there. 

I  have  never  said,  but  I  will  say  it  here,  that  I  know  Doc- 
tor Urquhart  likes  me — ^better  than  any  other  of  my  fam- 
ily ;  better,  perhaps,  than  any  friend  he  has,  for  he  has  not 
many.  He  is  a  man  of  great  kindhness  of  nature,  but  few 
personal  attachments.  I  have  heard  him  say,  "  that  though 
he  hked  a  great  many  people,  only  one  or  tw^o  were  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  him."  Dallas  might  have  been,  had  he 
lived.  He  told  me,  one  day,  there  was  a  certain  look  in  me 
which  occasionally  reminded  him  of  Dallas.  It  is  by  these 
little  things  that  I  guess  he  likes  me — at  least  enough  to 
make  me  feel,  when  with  him,-  that  rest  and  content  that  I 
never  feel  with  those  who  do  not  care  for  me. 

I  made  him  laugh,  and  he  made  me  laugh,  several  times, 
about  trifles  that,  now  I  call  them  to  mind,  were  not  funny 
at  all.  Yet  "  it  takes  a  wise  man  to  make  a  fool,  and  none 
but  a  fool  is  always  wise." 

With  which  sapient  saying  we  consoled  ourselves,  stand- 
ing at  the  edge  of  the  larger  pool,  watching  the  other 
couple  strolling  along,  doubtless  very  busy  over  the  wild- 
duck  affair. 

"  Your  sister  and  Treherne  seem  to  suit  one  another  re- 
markably well.     I  doubted  once  if  they  would." 

"  So  did  I.  It  ought  to  be  a  warning  to  us  against  hasty 
judgments.     Especially  here." 

Mischief  prompted  the  latter  suggestion,  for  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart must  have  recollected,  as  Avell  as  I  did,  the  last  and 
only  time  he  and  I  had  walked  across  this  moorland  road, 
Avhen  we  had  such  a  serious  quarrel,  and  I  was  more  pas- 
sionate and  rude  to  him  than  I  ever  was  to  any  body — out 
of  my  own  family.  I  hope  he  has  forgiven  me.  Yet  'he 
was  a  little  wrong  too. 


172  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

"  Yes,  especially  here,"  he  repeated,  smiling — so  I  have 
no  doubt  he  did  remember. 

Just  then,  Lisabel's  laugh,  and  her  husband's  with  it, 
rang  distinctly  across  the  pool. 

"  They  seem  very  happy,  those  two." 

I  said,  I  felt  sure  they  were,  and  that  it  was  a  blessed 
thing  to^  find,  the  older  one  grew,  how  much  of  happuiess 
there  is  in  life. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Do  yott  not  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do ;  but  not  in  your  sense  exactly.  Remember,  Miss 
Theodora,  people  see  life  in  a  difierent  aspect  at  twenty-five 
and  at — " 

"Forty.     I  know  that." 

"That  I  am  forty?  Which  I  am  not  quite,  by-the-by. 
N'o  doubt  it  seems  to  you  a  most  awful  age." 

I  said,  it  was  perhaps  for  a  woman,  but  for  a  man  no  more 
than  the  prime  of  life,  with  many  years  before  him  in  which 
both  to  work  and  enjoy. 

"  Yes,  for  work  is  enjoyment,  the  only  enjoyment  that 
ever  satisfies." 

He  stood  gazing  across  the  moorland,  my  moorland, 
which  put  on  its  best  smile  for  us  to-day.  Ay,  though 
the  heather  was  brown,  and  the  furze-bushes  had  lost  their 
gold.  But  so  long  as  there  is  free  air,  sunshine,  and  sky, 
the  beauty  can  never  vanish  from  my  beloved  moor.  I 
wondered  how  any  one  could  look  at  it  and  not  enjoy  it ; 
could  stand  here  as  we  stood  and  not  be  satisfied. 

Perhaps  in  some  slight  way  I  hinted  this,  at  least,  so  far 
as  concerned  myself,  to  whom  every  thing  seemed  so  deli- 
cious, after  this  month  of  sorrow. 

"  Ah !  yes,  I  understand,"  said  Doctor  Frquhart,  "  and 
so  it  should  be  with  me  also.  So  it  is,  I  trust.  This  is  a 
lovely  day,  lovely  to  its  very  close,  you  see." 

For  the  sun  was  sinking  westward,  and  the  clouds  rob- 
ing themselves  for  one  of  those  infinitely  varied  autumu 
sunsets,  of  the  glory  of  which  no  human  eye  can  ever  tire. 

"  You  never  saw  a  tropical  sunset  ?  I  have,  many.  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  another." 

After  a  little  hesitation,  I  asked  if  he  thought  it  likely  ? 
Did  he  wish  to  go  abroad  again  ? 

"  For  some  reasons,  yes !"  Then  speaking  forcibly :  "Do 
not  think  me  morbid ;  of  all  things,  morbid,  cowardly  sen- 
timentahty  is  my  abhorrence — but  I  am  not  naturally  a 


A  LIFE   FOE   A  LEFE.  173 

cheerful-minded  man.  That  is,  I  beheve  I  was,  but  circum- 
stances have  been  stronger  than  nature ;  and  it  now  costs 
me  an  effort  to  attain  what  I  think  every  man  ought  to 
have,  if  he  is  not  absolutely  a  wicked  man." 

"  You  mean  an  even,  happy  temper,  which  tries  to  make 
the  best  of  all  things,  as  I  am  sure  you  do." 

"An  idle  life,"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  "is  of  all  things 
the  very  worst  for  me.  Unless  I  have  as  much  work  as 
ever  I  can  do,  I  am  never  happy." 

This  was  comprehensible  in  degree.  Though  one  thing 
surprised  and  pained  me,  that  even  Doctor  Urquhart  was 
not  "  haj)py."     Is  any  body  happy  ? 

"  Do  not  misunderstand  me."  (I  had  not  spoken,  but  he 
often  guesses  my  thoughts  in  a  way  that  makes  me  thank- 
ful I  have  nothing  to  hide.)  "  There  are  as  many  degrees 
of  happiness  as  of  goodness,  and  the  perfectipn  of  either  is 
impossible.  But  I  have  my  share.  Yes,  truly,  I  have  my 
share." 

"Of  both?" 

"Don't— don't!" 

'Nor  ought  I  to  have  jested  when  he  was  in  such  heavy 
earnest. 

And  then  for  some  time  we  were  so  still,  that  I  remem- 
ber hearing  a  large  bee,  deluded  by  the  mild  weather,  come 
swinging  and  singing  over  the  moor,  and  stop  at  the  last, 
the  very  last,  blue-bell — I  dared  not  call  it  a  hare-bell  T^ath 
Doctor  Urquhart  by — of  the  year,  for  his  honey-supper. 
While  he  was  eating  it,  I  picked  one  of  the  flower-stalks, 
and  stroked  it  softly  over  his  great  brown  back  and  -wings. 

"  What  a  child  you  are  still !" 

(But  for  once  Doctor  Urquhart  was  mistaken.) 

"  How  quiet  every  thing  is  here !"  he  added. 

"  Yes,  that  wavy  purple  hne  always  reminded  me  of  the 
hills  in  the  '  Happy  Valley'  of  Prince  Rasselas.  Beyond 
them  hes  the  world." 

"  If  you  knew  what '  the  world'  is,  as  you  must  one  day. 
But  I  hope  you  will  only  see  the  best  half  of  it.  I  hope 
you  will  have  a  happy  life." 

I  was  silent. 

"  This  picture ;  the  moorland,  liills,  and  lake — your  pond 
is  as  wide  and  bright  as  a  lake — will  always  put  me  in 
mind  of  Rasselas.  But  one  can  not  live  forever  in  our 
'  Happy  Valley,'  nor  in  our  lazy  camp  either.  I  often  wish 
I  had  more  work  to  do." 


174  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

"  How — and  wliere  ?" 

As  soon  as  I  had  put  it  I  blushed  at  the  intrusiveness  of 
this  question.  In  all  he  tells  me  of  his  affairs  I  listen,  but 
never  dare  to  inquire,  aware  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask  of 
him  more  than  he  chooses  to  reveal. 

Right  or  not,  he  was  not  offended  ;  he  replied  to  me  fully 
and  long ;  talking  more  as  if  I  had  been  a  man  and  his  con- 
fidential friend,  than  only  a  simple  girl,  who  has  in  this  at 
least  some  sense,  that  she  feels  she  can  understand  him. 

It  appears,  that  in  peace-time,  the  duties  of  a  regimental 
surgeon  are  almost  nothing,  except  in  circumstances  where 
they  become  as  hopeless  as  they  are  heavy ;  such  as  the 
cases  of  unhealthy  barracks,  and  other  avoidable  causes  of 
mortality,  which  Doctor  Urquhart  and  Augustus  discussed, 
and  which  he  has  since  occasionally  referred  to,  when  talk- 
ing to  papa  and  me.  He  told  me  with  what  anxiety  he  had 
tried  to  set  on  foot  reforms  in  these  matters ;  how  all  his 
plans  had  been  frustrated,  by  the  tardiness  of  government ; 
and  how  he  was  hopeless  of  ever  attaining  his  end.  Indeed 
he  showed  me  an  official  letter,  received  that  morning,  fi- 
nally dismissing  the  question. 

^'  You  see.  Miss  Theodora, 

"  '  To  mend  the  v/orld's  a  vast  design,' 
too  vast  for  my  poor  powers." 

"  Are  you  discouraged  ?" 

"  'No.  But  I  suspect  I  began  at  the  wrong  end ;  that  I 
attempted  too  much,  and  gave  myself  credit  for  more  influ- 
ence than  I  possessed.  It  does  not  do  to  depend  upon  other 
people ;  much  safer  is  that  amount  of  work  that  a  man  can 
do  with  his  own  two  hands  and  head.  I  should  be  far 
freer,  and  therefore  more  useful,  if  I  left  the  army  altogeth- 
er, and  set  up  practice  on  my  own  account." 

"  That  is,  if  you  settled  somewhere  as  a  consulting  phy- 
sician, like  Doctor  Black  ?" 

"  No,"  he  smiled — "  not  exactly  like  Doctor  Black.  Mine 
would  be  a  much  humbler  position.  You  know  I  have  no 
income  except  my  pay." 

I  confessed  that  I  had  never  given  a  thought  to  his  in- 
come, and,  agam  smihng,  he  answered — "  No,  he  was  sure 
of  that." 

He  then  went  on  to  exj^lain  that  he  believed  moral  and 
physical  evil  to  be  so  bound  up  together,  that  it  was  idle  to 
attack  one  without  trying  to  cure  the  other.  He  thought, 
better  than  all  building  of  jails  and  reformatories,  or  even 


A   LIFE   FOK    A   LIFE.  l75 

of  cliurclies — since  the  Word  can  be  spread  abroad  witliout 
need  of  bricks  or  mortar — would  be  the  establishmg  of  sani- 
tary improvements  in  om*  great  towns,  and  trying  to  teach 
the  poor,  not  how  to  be  taken  care  of  in  work-houses,  pris- 
ons, and  hospitals,  but  how  to  take  care  of  themselves  in 
their  own  homes.  And  then,  in  answer  to  my  questions, 
he  told  me  many  things  about  the  hfe,  say  rather  existence, 
of  the  working  classes  in  most  large  towns,  which  made  me 
turn  sick  at  heart ;  marveling  how,  with  all  things  going 
on  around  me,  I  could  ever  sit  dreamily  gazing  over  my 
moorland,  and  playing  cliildisli  tricks  with  bees ! 

Yes,  something  ought  to  be  done.  I  was  glad,  I  was 
proud,  that  it  had  come  mto  his  mind  to  do  it.  Better  far 
to  labor  thus  in  his  own  country  than  to  follow  an  idle 
regiment  into  foreign  parts,  or  even  a  fightuig  regiment 
into  the  terrible  campaign.     I  said  so. 

"  Ah  !  you  '  hate  soldiers'  still." 

I  did  not  answer,  but  met  his  eyes ;  I  know  mine  were 
full — ^I  know  my  Ups  were  quivering.  Horribly  painful  it 
was  to  be  jested  with  just  then. 

Doctor  TJrquhart  said  gravely,  "  I  was  not  in  earnest ; 
I  beg  your  pardon." 

We  then  returned  to  the  discussion  of  his  plans  and  in- 
tentions.    I  asked  him  how  he  meant  to  begin  his  labors  ? 

"  From  a  very  simple  starting-point.  '  The  doctor'  has, 
of  ail  persons,  the  greatest  influence  among  the  poor — if 
only  he  cares  to  use  it.  As  a  commencement,  and  also  be- 
cause I  must  earn  salt  to  my  porridge,  you  Imow  my  best 
course  would  be  to  obtain  the  situation  of  surgeon  to  some 
dispensary,  work-house,  hospital,  or  even  jail.  Thence,  I 
could  widen  my  iield  of  work  at  pleasure,  so  far  as  time 
and  money  were  forthcoming." 

"  If  some  one  could  only  give  you  a  fortune  now !" 

"  I  do  not  beheve  hi  fortunes.  A  man's  best  wealth  con- 
sists of  his  personal  labors,  personal  life.  '  Silver  and  gold 
have  I  none ;'  but  wherever  I  am,  I  can  give  myself,  my 
labors,  and  my  life." 

I  said  something  about  that  being  a  great  gift — ^many 
men  would  call  it  a  great  sacrifice. 

"Less  to  me  than  to  most  men — since,  as  you  know,  I 
have  no  relatives ;  nor  is  it  likely  I  shall  ever  marry." 

I  believed  so.  Not  constantly,  but  at  intervals.  Some<' 
thing  in  his  manner  and  mode  of  thought  fixed  the  convic- 
tion in  my  mind,  from  our  earliest  acquaiutance. 


176  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Of  course,  I  merely  made  some  silent  assent  to  this  con- 
fidence. What  was  there  to  say  ?  Perhaps  he  expected 
something — for  as  we  turned  to  walk  home,  the  sun  having 
set,  he  remained  a  long  time  silent.  But  I  could  not  speak. 
In  truth,  nothing  came  into  my  head  to  say. 

At  that  I  lifted  my  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  saw  the 
mist  beginnmg  to  rise  over  my  moorland — ^my  gray,  soft, 
dreamy  moorland.  Ay,  dreamy  it  was,  and  belonging  only 
to  dreams.  But  the  world  beyond — the  struggling,  sufferings 
sinning  world  of  which  he  had  told  me — ^that  was  a  reality. 

I  said  to  my  friend  who  walked  beside  me,  feeling  keenly 
that  he  was  my  friend,  and  that  I  had  a  right  to  look  up 
into  his  good  noble  face,  wherein  all  his  life  was  written  as 
clearly  as  on  a  book — thinking  too  what  a  comfort  and  priv- 
ilege it  was  to  have,  more  than  any  one  else  had,  the  read= 
ing  of  that  book — ^I  said  to  Doctor  Urquhart — ^my  old  hes- 
itation having  somehow  altogether  vanished — that  I  wished 
to  know  all  he  could  possibly  tell  me  of  his  plans  and  proj- 
ects :  that  I  liked  to  hsten  to  them,  and  would  fain  do 
more  than  listen — ^help. 

He  thanked  me.  "Listening  is  helping,  I  hoj)e  you 
will  not  refuse  sometimes  to  help  me  in  that  way — ^it  is  a 
great  comfort  to  me.  But  the  labor  I  hope  for  is  exclu- 
sively a  man's ;  if  any  woman  could  give  aid  you  could,  for 
you  are  the  bravest  woman  I  ever  knew." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  never  can  help  you  ?'' 

":n'o." 

So  our  walk  ended. 

I  say  "  ended,"  because,  though  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
laughing  with  Augustus  and  Lisabel — who  had  pushed  one 
another  ankle-dee]3  into  the  pond,  and  behaved  exactly  like 
a  couple  of  school-children  out  on  a  holiday,  and  though, 
they  hurrying  home.  Doctor  Urquhart  and  I  afterward  fol- 
lowed leisurely,  walking  slowly  together  along  the  moor- 
land road  —  we  did  not  renew  our  conversation.  We 
scarcely  exchanged  more  than  a  few  words ;  though,  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  we  did  not  feel — ^that  is,  I  did  not  feel — 
either  apart,  or  unfriendly,  or  sad. 

There  is  more  in  hfe  than  mere  happiness — even  as  there 
are  more  things  in  the  world  than  mere  marrying  and  giv- 
ing in  marriage.  If,  from  circumstances,  he  has  taken  that 
resolution,  he  is  perfectly  justified  in  having  done  so ;  and 
in  keeping  to  it.  I  would  do  exactly  the  same.  The 
character  of  a  man  who  marries  himself  to  a  cause,  or  a 


A   LITE   FOE   A   LIFE.  177 

duty,  has  always  been  a  sort  of  ideal  of  mine — like  my  Max 
— Max  and  TbeMa.  But  they  were  lovers — betrothed  lov- 
ers ;  free  to  say  "  I  love  you,"  with  eyes  and  hj^s ;  just 
once,  for  a  day  or  two — a  httle  hour  or  two.  Would  this 
have  made  partuig  less  bitter  or  more  ?  I  can  not  tell ;  I 
do  not  know.  I  shah  never  know  aught  about  these  things. 
So  I  will  not  think  of  them. 

When  we  came  home — Doctor  Urquhart  and  myself — I 
left  him  at  the  door,  and  went  up  into  my  own  room. 

In  the  parlor  I  found  CoHn  Granton  come  to  tea ;  he  had 
iMssed  me  at  church,  he  said,  and  was  afraid  I  had  made 
myself  ill — so  walked  over  to  Rockmount  to  see.  It  was 
very  kind — though,  while  acknowledging  it,  he  seemed  half 
ashamed  of  the  kindness. 

He  and  Augustus,  now  on  the  best  of  terms,  kept  us 
alive  all  the  evening  with  their  talking  and  laughing.  They 
planned  all  sorts  of  excursions  —  hunting,  shooting,  and 
what  not — to  take  place  durmg  the  grand  Christmas  gath- 
ering wliich  is  to  be  at  Treherne  Court.  Doctor  Urquhart 
— one  of  the  invited  guests — listened  to  all  with  a  look  of 
amused  content. 

Yes — ^he  is  content.  More  than  once,  as  I  caught  his 
eye  following  me  about  the  room,  we  exchanged  a  smile — 
friendly,  even  affectionate.  Ay,  he  does  like  me.  K  I 
were  a  httle  younger — if  I  were  a  httle  girl  in  curls,  I 
should  say  he  is  "  fond"  of  me.  "  Fond  of" — what  an  idle 
phrase!  such  as  one  would  use  toward  a  dog,  or  cat,  or 
bird.  What  a  difference  between  that  and  the  holy  words, 
"  I  love !"  not  as  silly  young  folks  say,  I  am  "  in  love" — 
but  ^^Ilove  f  with  all  my  reason,  will,  and  strength ;  with 
all  the  tenderness  of  my  heart ;  aU  the  reverence  of  my  soul. 

Be  quiet,  heart ;  be  silent,  soul !  I  have,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, naught  to  do  with  these  things. 

The  evening  jDassed  pleasantly  and  calmly  enough,  all 
parties  seeming  to  enjoy  themselves;  even  poor  Cohn 
coming  out  his  brihiantest  and  best,  and  making  himself 
quite  at  home.  Though  he  got  into  a  little  disgrace  before 
going  away,  by  saymg  something  which  irritated  papa ;  and 
which  made  me  glad  that  the  little  conversation  this  morn- 
ing between  Doctor  Urquhart  and  myself  had  not  been  in 
family  conclave,  but  private. 

Colin  was  speakmg  of  the  sermon,  and  how  "  shocked" 
his  mother  had  been  at  its  pleading  against  capital  punish- 
ment. 

H2 


178  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

"Against  capital  pmiishment,  did  you  say?"  cried  papa. 
"Did  my  curate  bring  this  disgraceful  subject  into  my 
pulpit  in  order  to  speak  against  the  law  of  the  land — the 
law  of  God  ?  Girls,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  Dora,  re- 
mind me  I  must  see  the  young  man  to-morrow." 

I  was  mortally  afraid  this  would  end  in  the  poor  young 
man's  summary  dismissal;  for  papa  never  allows  any 
"new-fangled  notions"  in  his  curates — they  must  think  and 
preach  as  he  does — or  quit.  I  pleaded  a  little  for  this  one, 
who  had  a  brother  and  sister  dependent  on  him,  lodging  in 
the  village ;  and,  as  far  as  I  dared  and  could,  I  pleaded  for 
his  sermon.  Colin  tried  to  aid  me — honest  fellow ;  back- 
ing my  words,  every  one,  with  the  most  eager  assevera- 
tions ;  well  meant,  though  they  did  not  exactly  assist  the 
argument. 

"  Dora,"  cried  papa,  in  utmost  astonishment,  "  what  do 
you  mean?" 

"Miss  Dora's  quite  right:  she  always  is,"  said  Colin, 
stoutly.  "  I  don't  think  any  body  ever  ought  to  be  hanged. 
Least  of  all  a  poor  fellow  who,  like" — (he  mentioned  the 
name,  but  I  forget  it — it  was  the  case  that  has  been  so 
much  in  the  newspapers) — "killed  another  fellow  out  of 
jealousy — or  in  a  passion — or  being  drunk — which  was  it  ? 
I  say,  IJrquhart — Treherne — won't  you  bear  me  out  ?" 

"  In  what  ?"  asked  Augustus,  laughing. 

"  That  many  a  man  has  felt  inclined  sometimes  to  com- 
mit murder :  I  have  myself,  before  now — ha !  ha !  and  many 
a  poor  devil  is  kicked  out  of  the  world  dancing  upon  noth- 
ing, who  isn't  a  bit  worse,  may  be  better,  than  a  great 
many  young  scoundrels  who  die  unhung.  That's  truth, 
Mr.  Johnston,  thougl^.  I  say  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  papa,  turning  white  with  anger,  "  you  are  at 
perfect  liberty  to  say  exactly  what  you  please — provided  it 
is  not  in  my  presence.  ISTo  one,  before  me,  shall  so  insult 
my  cloth,  and  blaspheme  my  Maker,  as  id  deny  His  law 
set  down  here"  (dropping  his  hand  over  our  great  family 
Bible,  which  he  allows  no  one  but  himself  to  touch ;  be- 
cause, as  we  know,  there  is  the  fly-leaf,  pasted  down,  not  to 
be  read  by  any  one,  nor  written  on  again  during  poor 
papa's  lifetime).  "  God's  law  is  blood  for  blood.  '  W/ioso 
sheddeth  mcm^s  blood,  by  man  shall  his  blood  be  shed.'' 
That  law,  sir,  my  Church  beUeves  has  never  been — never 
will  be — annulled.  And,  though  your  maudlin,  loose  char- 
ity may  sympathize  with  hanged  murderers,  uphold  duel- 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  179 

ists,  and  exalt  into  heroes  cowardly  man-slayers,  I  say  that 
I  will  no  more  have  in  my  house  the  defenders  of  such, 
than  I  would,  under  any  pretext,  grasp  in  mine  the  hand 
of  a  man  who  had  taken  the  life  of  another." 

To  see  papa  so  excited  alarmed  us  all.  Cohn,  greatly 
distressed,  begged  his  pardon  and  retracted  every  thing — 
"but  the  mischief  was  done.  Though  we  anticipate  no  se- 
rious results — indeed  he  has  now  been  for  some  hours 
calmly  asleep  in  his  bed — still  he  was  made  much  worse 
by  this  unfortunate  dispute. 

Doctor  Urquhart  staid,  at  om^  earnest  wish,  till  mid- 
night, though  he  did  not  go  into  papa's  room.  When  I 
asked  him  what  was  to  be  done  in  case  of  papa's  head  suf- 
fering for  this  excitement — ^if  we  should  send  to  the  camp 
for  him — he  said,  "  ISTo,  he  would  rather  we  sent  for  Doc- 
tor Black." 

Yet  he  was  anxious,  I  know ;  for  after  Cohn  left  he  sat 
by  himself  in  the  study,  saymg  he  had  a  letter  to  wiite  and 
post,  but  would  come  up  stairs  to  papa  if  we  sent  for  him. 
And  when,  satisfied  that  the  danger  was  past,  and  papa 
asleep,  he  prepared  to  leave,  I  never,  in  all  the  time  of  our 
acquaintance,  saw  him  looking  so  exceedingly  j)ale  and 
weary. 

I  wanted  him  to  take  something — wine  or  food ;  or,  at 
least,  to  have  one  of  our  ponies  saddled  that  he  might  ride 
instead  of  walking  home,  but  he  would  not. 

We  were  standing  at  the  hall — only  he  and  I — the  oth- 
ers having  gone  to  bed.  He  took  both  my  hands,  and 
looked  long  and  steadily  in  my  face  as  he  said  good-by. 

"  Keep  up  your  heart.  I  do  not  think  any  harm  will 
come  to  your  father." 

"I  hope  not.  Dear,  dear  papa — it  would  indeed  be  ter- 
rible." 

"  It  would.  Kothing  must  be  allowed  to  grieve  him  in 
any  way  as  long  as  he  lives." 

"No." 

Doctor  Urquhart  was  not  more  explicit  than  this ;  but  I 
am  sure  he  wished  me  to  understand  that  in  any  of  those 
points  discussed  to-day,  wherein  he  and  I  agreed,  and  both 
difiered  from  my  father,  it  was  our  duty  henceforth,  as 
much  as  possible,  to  preserve  a  respectful  silence.  And  I 
thanked  hun  in  my  heart — and  with  my  eyes  too,  I  know — 
for  this,  and  for  his  forbearance  in  not  having  contradicted 
papa,  even  when  most  violent  and  unjust. 


180  A   LIFE   FOR   A    LIFE. 

"  When  sliall  you  be  coming  again,  Doctor  Urquhart  ?" 

"  Some  day — some  day." 

"  Do  not  let  it  be  very  long  first.     Good-by.'* 

"  Good-by." 

And  here  befell  a  thing  so  strange,  so  unexpected,  that, 
if  I  think  of  it,  it  seems  as  if  I  must  have  been  dreaming ; 
as  if,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  events  of  to-day,  which  I  have 
so  quietly  written  down,  were  perfectly  natural,  real,  and 
probable — this  alone  was  something  unreal,  impossible  to 
tell — hardly  right  to  tell. 

And  yet,  oh  me !  it  is  not  wrong,  though  it  makes  my 
cheek  burn  and  my  hand  tremble — ^this  poor  little  hand. 

I  thought  he  had  gone,  and  was  standing  on  the  door- 
step, preparing  to  lock  up,  when  Doctor  TJrquhart  came 
back  again  along  the  walk.  It  was  he,  though  m  manner 
and  voice  so  imlike  himself,  that  even  now  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve the  whole  is  not  a  delusion. 

"  For  God's  sake — for  pity's  sake — do  not  utterly  forget 
me,  Theodora." 

And  then — then — 

He  said  once  that  every  man  ought  to  hold  every  woman 
sacred ;  that,  if  not  of  her  own  kmdred,  he  had  no  right, 
except  as  the  merest  salutation,  even  to  press  her  hand,  un- 
less— ^unless  he  loved  her. 

Then  why — 

No,  I  ought  not  to  write  it,  and  I  will  not.  It  is — ^if  it  is 
any  thing — something  sacred  between  him  and  me ;  some- 
thing in  which  no  one  else  bas  any  part ;  which  may  not 
be  told  to  any  one,  except  in  my  prayers. 

My  heart  is  so  full.    I  will  close  this  and  say  my  prayers. 


CHAPTER  XYH. 

HEE   STORY. 

Treherne  Court. 

Where,  after  another  month's  pause,  I  resume  my  jour^ 
nal.  %- 

Papa  and  I  have  been  here  a  week.  At  the  last  moment 
Penelope  declined  going,  saying  that  some  one  ought  to 
keep  house  at  Rockmount.  I  wished  to  do  so,  but  she 
would  not  allow  me. 

This  is  a  fine  place,  and  papa  enjoys  it  extremely.     The 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  181 

enforced  change,  the  complete  upsetting  of  his  former  soli- 
tary ways,  first  by  Lisabel's  marriage,  and  then  by  his  own 
ilhiess,  seem  to  have  made  him  quite  young  again.  Before 
we  left,  Doctor  Black  pronounced  him  entirely  recovered ; 
that  he  might  reasonably  look  forward  to  a  healthy,  green 
old  age.  God  grant  it !  For,  altered  as  he  is  in  so  many 
ways,  by  some  imj)erceptible  influence ;  having  wider  in- 
terests— is  it  wrong  to  write  affections  ? — ^than  he  has  had 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  he  will  enjoy  life  far  more  than 
ever  before.  Ah  me !  how  can  any  body  reaUy  enjoy  life 
without  having  others  to  make  happy,  and  to  draw  happi- 
ness from. 

Dr.  Black  wished,  as  a  matter  of  professional  etiquette, 
that  papa  should  once  again  consult  Doctor  Urquhart  about 
his  taking  this  long  northern  jom-ney ;  but,  on  sending  to 
the  camp,  we  found  he  was  "  absent  on  leave,"  and  had 
been  for  some  time.  Papa  was  disappointed  and  a  httle 
annoyed.  It  was  strange,  rather;  but  might  have  been 
sudden  and  important  business  connected  with  the  plans 
of  which  he  told  me,  and  which  I  did  not  feel  quite  justi- 
fied in  communicating  farther,  till  he  informs  papa  himself. 

I  had  a  week  of  that  restless  lazuiess,  which  I  suppose 
most  people  unaccustomed  to  leave  home  experience  for 
the  first  few  days  of  a  visit ;  not  unpleasant  laziness  neither, 
for  there  was  the  Christmas  week  to  anticipate  and  plan 
for,  and  every  nook  in  this  beautiful  place  to  investigate, 
as  its  own  possessors  scarcely  care  to  do,  but  which  I  and 
other  visitors  shall  so  intensely  enjoy.  JSTow  I  am  trying 
to  feel  settled.  In  this  octagon  room,  which  Lisabel — such 
a  thoughtful,  kindly  hostess  as  Lisa  makes !  has  specially 
appropriated  mine,  I  take  up  my  rest.  It  is  the  wee'est 
room  attaiuable  in  this  great,  wide,  wandermg  mansion, 
where  I  stiU  at  times  feel  as  strange  as  a  bird  in  a  crystal 
palace;  such  birds  as,  in  the  Aladdm  Palace  of  1851,  we 
used  to  see  flying  about  the  tops  of  these  gigantic,  motion- 
less trees,  caught  under  the  glass,  and  cheated  by  those 
green,  windless,  unstu-red  leaves  into  planning  a  natural  wild- 
wood  nest.  Poor  little  things !  To  have  once  dreamed  of 
a  nest,  and  then  never  to  be  able  to  find  or  build  it,  must 
be  a  sore  thing. 

This  grand  "show"  house  has  no  pretensions  to  the 
character  of  "nest,"  or  "home."  To  use  the  word  in  it 
seems  half  ridiculous,  or  pathetic ;  though  Lisa  does  not 
find  it  so.     Stately  and  easy,  our  girl  moves  through  these 


182  A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE. 

magnificent  rooms,  and  enjoys  her  position  as  if  she  were 
born  to  it.  She  shows  good  taste  and  good  feehng,  too — 
treats  meek,  prosy,  washed-ont  Lady  Augustus  Treherne, 
and  httle,  fussy,  infirm  Sir  WiUiam,  whose  brown  scratch- 
wig  and  gold  spectacles  rarely  appear  out  of  his  own  room, 
with  unfailing  respect  and  consideration.  They  are  might- 
ily proud  of  her,  as  they  need  to  be.  Truly,  the  best  thing 
this  their  patrician  blood  could  do  was  to  ally  itself  with 
our  plebeian  luie. 

But  thank  goodness  that  Lisa,  not  I,  was  the  victim  of 
the  union!  To  me,  this  great  house,  so  carefully  swept 
and  garnished,  sometimes  feels  like  a  beautiful  body  with- 
out a  soul ;  I  should  dread  a  demon's  entering  and  possess- 
ing it,  compelhng  me  to  all  sorts  of  wild  and  wicked  deeds, 
in  order  to  break  the  suave  harmony  of  things.  For  in- 
stance, the  three  drawing-rooms,  eti  suite,  where  Lis  and  I 
spend  our  mornings,  amid  a  labyrmth  of  costly  lumber — 
sofas,  tables,  and  chairs,  with  our  choice  of  five  fires  to 
warm  at,  glowing  in  steel  and  gilded  grates,  and  glittering 
with  pointed  china  tiles ;  having  eleven  mirrors,  large  and 
small,  wherein  to  catch  at  all  points  views  of  our  sweet 
selves — in  this  splendid  wilderness,  I  should,  did  trouble 
seize  me,  roam,  rage,  or  ramp  about  like  any  wild  animal. 
The  oppression  of  it  would  be  intolerable.  Better,  a  thou- 
sand times,  my  little  room  at  Rockmount,  with  its  little 
window,  in  at  which  the  branches  wave — I  can  see  them 
as  I  lie  in  bed,  my  own  dear  little  bed,  beside  which  I  flung 
myself  down  the  night  before  I  left  it,  and  prayed  that  my 
coming  back  might  be  as  happy  as  my  going. 

This  is  the  first  time  since  then  that  I  have  suffered  my- 
self to  cry.  When  people  feel  happy  causelessly,  it  is  said 
to  be  a  sign  that  the  joy  can  not  last,  that  there  is  sorrow 
coming.  So,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  a  good  omen  to 
feel  one's  heart  aching  without  cause.  Yet  a  tear  or  two 
seems  to  relieve  it  and  do  it  good.     Enough  now. 

I  was  about  to  describe  Treherne  Court.  Had  any  of 
us  seen  it  before  the  wedding,  ill-natured  people  might 
have  said  that  Miss  Lisabel  Johnston  married  the  Court 
and  not  the  master — so  magnificent  is  it.  Estate  extend- 
ing goodness  knows  where ;  park  with  deer  ;  avenue  two 
miles  long ;  plantations  sloping  to  the  river — one  of  the 
"  principal  rivers  of  England,"  as  we  used  to  learn  in  Pin- 
nock's  Geography — the  broad,  quiet,  and  yet  fast-running 
Dee.     How  lovely  it  must  look  in  summer,  with  those  great 


A   LITE   FOE    A    LITE.  183 

trees  dipping  greenly  into  it,  and  those  meadows  dotted 
witli  lazy  cows. 

There  are  gardens,  too,  and  an  iron  bridge,  and  statues, 
and  a  lawn  with  a  sun-dial,  though  not  half  so  ^^retty  as  that 
one  at  the  Cedars;  and  a  quadrangular  stable,  almost  as 
grand  as  the  house,  and  which  Augustus  thinks  of  quite  as 
much  importance.  He  has  made  Lisa  a  first-rate  horse- 
woman, and  they  used  to  go  careering  half  over  the  coun- 
try, until  lately.  Certainly,  those  two  have  the  most  thor- 
ough enjoyment  of  life,  fresh,  young,  animal  hfe  and  spirits, 
that  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  Their  whole  existence,  pres- 
ent and  future,  seems  to  be  one  blaze  of  sunshine. 

I  broke  off  here  to  write  to  Penelope.  I  wish  Penelope 
were  with  us.  She  will  find  her  Christmas  very  dull  with- 
out us  all ;  and,  consequently,  without  Francis ;  though  he 
could  not  have  come  to  Rockmount  under  any  circum- 
stances, he  said.  "  Imj^ortant  business."  This  "  business," 
alack,  is  often  hard  to  brook.     Well ! 

"Men must  work,  and  women  must  weep." 

N'o,  they  ought  not  to  weep ;  they  are  cowards  if  they  do. 
They  ought  to  cheer  and  encourage  the  men,  never  to  be- 
moan and  blame  them.  Yet  I  wish — I  wish  Penelope 
could  get  a  sight  of  Francis  this  Christmas  time.  It  is 
such  a  holy  tune,  when  hearts  seem  "knit  together  in 
love" — when  one  would  like  to  have  all  one's  best-beloved 
about  one.  And  she  loves  Francis — has  loved  him  for  so 
long. 

Doctor  Urquhart  said  to  me  once,  the  only  time  he  ever 
referred  to  the  matter — for  he  is  too  delicate  to  gossip 
about  family  love  affairs ;  "  that  he  wished  sincerely  my 
sister  and  Mr.  Charteris  had  been  married — it  would  have 
been  the  best  thing  which  could  have  happened  to  him — 
and  to  her,  if  she  loved  him."  I  smiled ;  little  doubt  about 
that  "if"  In  truth,  though  I  once  thought  differently,  it 
is  one  of  the  chief  foundations  of  the  esteem  and  sympathy 
which  I  take  shame  to  myself  for  not  having  hitherto  given 
to  my  elder  sister.  I  shall  do  better,  please  God,  m'tune 
to  come ;  better  m  every  way. 

And  to  begin :  In  order  to  shake  off  a  certain  half-fretful 
dreaminess  that  creej^s  over  me,  it  may  be  partly  in  conse- 
quence of  the  breaking  up  of  liome  habits,  and  the  sudden 
plunge  into  a  hfe  so  totally  new,  I  mean  to  write  regularly 
at  my  journal,  to  put  down  every  thing  that  happens  from 


184  A  LIFE   FOE  A   LIFE. 

this  time ;  so  that  it  may  be  a  complete  history  of  this  visit 
at  Trehenie  Court,  if  at  a  futm-e  time,  I  or  any  one  should 
ever  read  it.  Will  any  one  ever  do  so  ?  Will  any  one  ever 
have  the  right?  No;  rights  enforced  are  ugly  things. 
Will  any  one  ever  come  and  say  to  me,  "  Dora,"  or  "  The- 
odora"— I  think  I  like  my  full  name  best — "  I  should  like 
to  read  your  journal?" 

Let  me  see  r  to-night  is  Sunday ;  I  seem  always  to  choose 
Sunday  for  these  entries,  because  we  usually  retire  early, 
and  it  is  such  a  peaceful  family-day  at  Rockmount ;  which 
indeed  is  the  case  here.  We  only  w^ent  to  church  once, 
and  dined  as  usual  at  seven,  so  that  I  had  a  long  afternoon's 
wander  about  the  grounds ;  first  with  papa,  and  then  by 
myself.  I  hope  it  was  a  truly  Sunday  walk;  that  I  was 
content  and  thankful,  as  I  ought  to  be. 

So  endeth  Sunday.    Let  us  see  what  Monday  will  bring. 

Monday.  It  brought  an  installment  of  visitors ,  the  first 
for  our  Christmas  week. 

At  church-time  a  fly  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  who  should 
leap  out  of  it,  with  the  brightest  faces  in  the  world,  but 
Colin  Granton  and  his  mother.  I  was  so  surprised — startled 
indeed,  for  I  happened  to  be  standing  at  the  hall  door  when 
the  fly  appeared — that  I  hardly  could  find  two  words  to 
say  to  either.  Only  my  eyes  might  have  sho-svn — I  trust 
they  did-^that,  after  the  first  mmute,  I  was  very  glad  to 
see  them. 

I  tucked  the  dear  old  lady  under  my  arm,  and  marched 
her  through  all  the  servants  into  the  dining-room,  leaving 
Colin  to  take  care  of  himself,  a  duty  of  which  the  young 
man  is  quite  capable.  Then  I  had  a  grand  hunt  after  papa 
and  Lisa ;  finally  waylaying  the  shy  Lady  Augusta,  and 
begging  to  introduce  to  her  my  dear  old  friend.  Every 
friend's  face  is  so  welcome  when  one  is  away  from  home. 

After  lunch,  the  gentlemen  adjourned  to  the  stables ; 
while  Mrs.  Treherne  escorted  her  guest  in  hospitable  state 
through  the  long  corridors  to  her  room,  and  I  was  glad  to 
see  the  very  best  bedroom  of  all  was  assigned  to  the  old 
lady.  Lisa — bless  the  girl !  looked  just  a  little  bit  proud 
of  her  beautiful  house,  and  not  unnatural  either.  A  wife 
has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  all  the  good  thmgs  her  husband's 
love  endows  her  with ;  only  they  might  be  better  things 
than  houses  and  lands,  clothes  and  furniture.  When  Lisa 
has  said  sometimes,  "  My  dear,  I  am  the  happiest  girl  in 
the  world.  Don't  you  envy  me?"  my  heart  has  never 
found  the  least  difficulty  in  replying. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  185 

Yet  she  is  liappy.  There  is  a  look  of  contented  matron- 
hood  growing  in  her  face  day  by  day,  far  sweeter  than  any 
thing  her  girlhood  could  boast.  She  is  very  fond  of  her 
husband  too.  It  was  charming  to  see  the  bright  blush  with 
which  she  started  up  from  Mrs.  Granton's  fireside,  the  in- 
stant Augustus  was  heard  caUing  outside,  "  Lis !  Lis !  Mrs. 
Treherne !    'Where's  Mrs.  Treherne !" 

"  Run  away  to  your  husband,  my  dear.  I  see  he  can't 
do  without  you.  How  well  she  looks  and  how  happy  she 
seems  !"  adcled  the  old  lady,  who  has  aj^parently  forgotten 
the  sHght  to  "  my  Colm." 

By  the  way,  I  do  not  suppose  Colin  ever  actually  pro- 
posed to  our  Lisa ;  only  it  was  a  sort  of  received  notion  in 
our  family  that  he  would.  If  he  had,  his  mother  never 
would  have  brought  him  here  to  be  a  daily  witness  of  Mrs. 
Treh erne's  beauty  and  contentment;  which  he  bears  with 
a  stoicism  most  remarkable  in  a  young  man  who  has  ever 
been  in  love  with  her.  Do  men  so  easily  forget  ?  Some, 
perhaps ;  not  all.  It  is  oftentimes  honorable  and  generous 
to  conquer  an  imfortunate  love ;  but  there  is  something  dis- 
creditable in  totally  ignoring  and  forgetting  it.  I  doubt,  I 
should  rather  despise  a  man  who  despised  his  first  love, 
even  for  me. 

Let  me  see :  where  did  I  leave  myself?  Oh,  sitting  by 
Mrs.  Granton's  fire ;  or  helpmg  her  to  take  off  her  things 
— a  sinecure  ofiice,  for  her  "thuigs" — no  other  word  befits 
them — are  popped  off  and  on  with  the  ease  and  untidiness 
of  fifteen,  instead  of  the  preciseness  of  sixty-five :  order 
and  regularity  being  omitted  by  Providence  in  the  manu- 
facture of  this  dear  old  lady.  Also  listening — which  is  no 
sinecure ;  for  she  always  has  plenty  to  say  about  every 
thing  and  every  body,  except  herself. 

I  may  never  have  said  it  in  so  many  words,  but  I  love 
Mrs.  Granton.  Every  line  in  her  nice  old  withered  face  is 
pleasant  to  me ;  every  creak  of  her  quick  footstep ;  every 
angular  fold  in  her  everlasting  black  silk  gown — a  very 
shabby  gown  often,  for  she  does  not  care  how  she  dresses. 
She  is  by  no  means  one  of  your  picturesque,  ancient  gen- 
tlewomen, looking  as  if  they  had  just  stepped  out  of  a  gUt- 
frame — she  is  only  a  little,  active,  bright  old  lady.  As  a 
girl,  she  might  have  been  pretty — I  am  not  sure,  though 
she  still  has  a  delicate  expressive  mouth,  and  soft  gray 
eyes ;  but  I  am  very  sure  that  she  often  looks  beautiful 
now. 


186  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

And  why?  for,  guessing  what  all  the  grand  people  at 
dmner  to-night  will  think  of  her  and  myself,  I  can  not  help 
smiling  at  this  application  of  the. word.  Because  she  has 
one  of  the  most  "beautiful  natures  that  can  adorn  an  old 
woman — or  a  young  one,  either :  all  loving-kindness,  ener- 
gy, cheerfulness.  Because  age  has  failed  to  sour  her;  af- 
fliction to  harden  her  heart.  Of  all  people  I  know,  she  is 
the  quickest  to  praise,  the  slowest  to  judge,  the  gentlest  to 
condemn.  A  living  homily  on  the  text  which,  specifying 
the  trinity  of  Christian  virtues,  names — "  these  three — hut 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity.'''' 

Long  familiarity  made  me  unmindful  of  these  qualities  in 
her,  till,  taught  by  the  observations  of  others,  and  by  my 
own  comparison  of  the  people  I  meet  out  m  the  world, 
which  may  be  supposed  to  mean  Treherne  Court,  Avith  my 
good  old  friend. 

*'  Have  you  much  company,  then  ?"  asked  she,  while  I 
was  trying  to  persuade  her  to  let  me  twist  into  a  little  more 
form  the  shapeless  "  bob"  of  her  dear  old  gray  hair,  and 
put  her  cap  not  quite  so  much  on  one  side.  "And  do  you 
enjoy  it,  my  dear  ?  Have,  you  seen  any  body  you  liked 
very  much  ?" 

"  None  that  I  liked  better  than  myself,  be  sure.  How 
should  I?" 

A  true  saying,  though  she  did  not  understand  its  under- 
meaning.  I  have  set  more  value  on  myself  of  late,  and 
taken  pains  to  be  pleasant  to  every  one.  It  would  not  do 
to  have  people  saying,  "  What  a  disagreeable  girl  is  that 
Theodora  Johnston!  I  wonder  how  any  body  can  like 
her  ?"  Has  Mrs.  Granton  an  idea  that  any  body — ^nay,  let 
it  come  out !  that  any  body  does  like  me  ? 

Her  eyes  were  very  sharp,  and  her  questions  keen,  as  I 
entertained  her  with  our  doings  at  Treherne  Court,  and  the 
acquaintances  we  had  made — a  large  number — ^from  county 
nobility  to  clerical  dignitaries  and  gay  young  officers  from 
Whitchester,  which  seems  made  up  entirely  of  barracks  and 
cathedral.  But  she  gave  me  no  news  in  return,  except  that 
Colin  found  the  Cedars  so  dull  that  he  had  never  rested  till 
he  had  got  his  mother  away  here,  which  fact  did  not  ex- 
tremely interest  me.  He  was  always  a  restless  youth,  but  I 
trusted  his  late  occupations  had  inclined  him  to  home-quiet- 
ness. Can  his  interest  in  them  have  ended  ?  or  is  there  no 
friend  at  hand  to  keej)  him  steadily  to  his  work  ? 

We  sat  so  long  gossiping  that  Lisabel,  ready  for  dinner, 


A    LIFE   POR   A   LIFE./^  187 

witli  Treherne  diamonds  blazing  on  her  white  neck  and 
arms,  called  its  to  order,  and  sent  me  away  to  dress.  As  I 
left  I  heard  her  say  Augustus  had  sent  her  to  ask  if  Mrs. 
Granton  had  seen  Doctor  Urquhart  lately  ? 

"  Oh  yes  ;  Colin  saw  him  a  few  days  since.  He  is  quite 
well  and  very  busy." 

"And  where  is  he?  Will  he  be  here  this  week?  Au- 
gustus wants  to  know." 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea.  He  did  not  say  a  word 
about  it." 

Lisabel  inquired  no  farther,  but  began  showing  her  velvet 
dress  and  her  beautiful  point-lace  ruffles,  Lady  Treherne's 
present — a  far  more  interesting  subject.  VerUy,  gratitude 
is  not  the  most  lasting  of  human  emotions  in  young  women 
who  have  homes,  and  husbands,  and  every  thing  they  can 
desire. 

Quite  well  and  very  busy,  though  not  too  busy  to  write 
to  Colin  Granton.  I  am  glad.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
he  might  be  ill. 

The  dinner-party  was  the  largest  since  we  have  been 
here.  Two  long  rows  of  faces,  in  not  one  of  whom  I  took 
the  slightest  interest  save  Mrs.  Granton's  and  Colin's.  I 
tried  to  sit  next  the  former,  and  the  latter  to  sit  next  to 
me  ;  but  both  designs  failed,  and  we  fell  among  strangers, 
which  is  sometimes  as  bad  as  falling  among  thieves.  I  did 
not  enjoy  my  evening  as  much  as  I  expected ;  but  I  hope  I 
behaved  well ;  that,  as  Mrs.  Treherne's  sister,  I  tried  to  be 
attentive  and  courteous  to  the  people,  that  no  one  need 
have  been  ashamed  of  poor  Theodora. 

And  it  was  some  comfort  when,  by  the  merest  chance,  I 
overheard  Mrs.  Granton  say  to  Lisabel  "that  she  never 
saw  a  girl  so  much  improved  as  Miss  Dora." 

Improved !  Yes,  I  ought  to  be.  There  was  room  for  it. 
Oh,  that  I  may  go  on  improvmg,  growing  better  and  better 
every  day !     Too  good  I  can  not  be. 

"  Quite  well  and  very  busy."  Again  runs  in  my  head 
that  sweet,  sad  ditty : 

' '  Men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
For  there's  little  to  earn  and  many  to  keep." 

Oh!  to  think  of  any  one's  ever  working /br  7ne! 

Tuesday.  ISTothing  at  all  happened.  Is^o  letters,  no 
news.  Colin  drove  out  his  mother  and  me  toward  the 
Welsh  hills,  which  I  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see ;  and, 
after  lunch,  asked  if  I  would  o-o  with  him  to  the  river-side 


188  "  >A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

in  search  of  a  boat,  for  lie  thought  we  may  still  have  a  row, 
though  it  is  December,  the  Aveather  being  so  mild.  He  re- 
membered how  I  used  to  like  his  pulling  Lisabel  and  me 
up  and  down  the  ponds  in  the  moorland — we  won't  say 
how  many  years  ago.  I  think  Colin  also  is  "improved." 
He  is  so  exceedingly  attentive  and  kind. 

Wednesday.  A  real  event  happened  to-day — quite  a 
surjDrise.  Let  me  make  the  most  of  it,  for  this  journal 
seems  very  unmteresting. 

I  was  standing,  "  flattenmg  my  nose,"  as  children  say, 
against  the  great  iron  gates  of  the  avenue,  peering  through 
them  at  the  two  lines  of  bare  trees,  planted  three  deep,  and 
the  broad  gravel-drive,  straight  as  an  arrow,  narrowing  in 
perspective  almost  to  a  point ;  the  lodge  plainly  visible  at 
the  end  of  the  two  miles,  which  seems  no  distance  at  all ; 
but  when  you  have  to  walk  it,  it's  "  awfu'  lang,"  as  says 
the  old  Scotch  gardener,  who  is  my  very  particular  friend, 
and  my  informant  on  all  subjects,  animal,  vegetable,  and 
historical,  pertaining  to  Treherne  Court.  And,  looking  at 
it  from  these  gates,  the  road  does  seem  "  awfu'  lang,"  like 
hfe.  I  was  thinking  so  when  some  one  touched  me,  and 
said,  "Dora." 

Francis  startled  me  so;  I  am  sure  I  must  have  blushed 
as  much  as  if  I  had  been  Penelope — that  is,  as  Peneloj)e 
used  to  blush  in  former  days.  The  next  minute  I  thought 
of  her,  and  felt  alarmed. 

"  Oh,  Francis,  nothing  is  the  matter — ^nothing  has  hap- 
pened to  Penelope  ?" 

"  You  silly  girl,  what  should  happen  ?  I  do  not  know 
any  thing  about  Rockmount ;  w^as  not  aware  but  that  you 
were  all  at  home  till  I  saw  you  here,  and  knew  by  the  sen- 
timental attitude  it  could  be  nobody  but  Dora.  Tell  me, 
when  did  you  come  ?" 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  I  understood  it  was  impossible 
for  you  to  leave  London." 

"  I  had  business  with  my  uncle.  Sir  William.  Besides, 
if  Penelope  is  here — " 

"  You  must  know  quite  well,  Francis,  that  Penelope  is 
not  here." 

I  never  scruple  to  speak  my  mind  to  Francis  Charteris. 
We  do  not  much  like  one  another,  and  are  both  aware  of 
it.  His  soft,  silken  politeness  often  strikes  me  as  insincere, 
and  my  "  want  of  refinement,"  as  he  terms  it,  may  be  quite 
as  distasteful  to  him.    We  do  not  suit,  and  were  we  ever 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  189 

SO  fond  of  one  another,  this  incompatibihty  would  be  ap- 
parent. People  may  hke  and  respect  one  another  extreme- 
ly, yet  not  suit,  even  as  two  good  tunes  are  not  always 
capable  of  being  harmonized.  I  once  heard  an  ingenious 
performer  try  to  play  at  once  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer" 
and  "  Garry  Owen."  The  result  resembled  many  a  con- 
versation between  Francis  and  me. 

This  promised  to  be  one  of  them ;  so,  as  a  preventive 
measure,  I  suggested  luncheon-time. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  I  am  not  hungry ;  I  lunched  at  Bir- 
mingham." 

Still,  it  might  have  struck  Francis  that  other  people  had 
not. 

We  crossed  the  gardens  toward  the  river,  under  the 
great  Portugal  laurels,  which  he  stood  to  admire. 

"  I  have  watched  their  growth  ever  since  I  was  a  boy. 
You  know,  Dora,  once  this  place  was  to  have  been  mine." 

"It  would  have  given  you  a  vast  deal  of  trouble,  and 
you  don't  like  trouble.  You  will  enjoy  it  much  more  as  a 
visitor." 

Francis  made  no  reply,  and  when  I  asked  the  reason  of 
his  sudden  change  of  plans,  and  if  Peneloj)e  were  acquaint- 
ed with  it,  he  seemed  vexed. 

"  Of  course  Penelope  knows ;  I  wrote  to-day,  and  told 
her  my  purpose  in  coming  here  was  to  see  Sir  WilHam. 
Can  hot  a  man  pay  his  respects  to  his  uncle  without  bemg 
questioned  and  suspected  ?" 

"  I  never  suspected  you,  Francis — until  now,  when  you 
look  as  if  you  were  afraid  I  should.  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Do  tell  me." 

For,  truly,  I  felt  alarmed.  He  was  so  extremely  nervous 
and  irritable,  and  his  sensitive  features,  which  he  can  not 
keep  from  telling  tales,  betrayed  so  much  inward  discom- 
fiture, that  I  dreaded  some  ill,  threatening  him  or  Penelope. 
If  one,  of  course,  both^ 

"Do  tell  me,  Francis.  Forgive  my  rudeness.  We  are 
almost  brother  and  sister." 

"  Which  tie  is  supposed  to  excuse  any  rudeness.  But 
really  I  have  nothing  to  tell — except  that  your  ladyship  is 
growing  blunter  than  ever,  under  the  instruction,  no  doubt, 
of  your  friend.  Doctor  Urquhart.     Pray,  is  he  here  ?" 

":n'o." 

"Is  he  expected?" 

"  You  had  better  ask  Captain  Treherne." 


190  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFE. 

"  Pshaw  !  W  hat  do  men  care  for  one  another  ?  I  thought 
a  young  Lady  was  the  hkehest  person  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  proceedings  of  a  young — I  beg  his  pardon — a  middle- 
aged  gentleman." 

If  Francis  thought  either  to  irritate  or  confuse  me,  he 
was  disappointed.  A  month  ago  it  might  have  been.  Not 
now.  But  j)robably — and  I  have  since  felt  sure  of  it — he 
was  merely  pursuing  his  own  ends  without  heeding  me. 

"]^ow,  Dora,  seriously,  I  want  to  know  something  of 
Doctor  Urquhart's  proceedings,  and  where  a  letter  might 
reach  him.     Do  find  out  for  me,  there's  a  good  girl." 

And  hejput  his  arm  round  me,  in  the  elder-brotherly  ca- 
ressing manner  which  he  sometimes  adopted  with  Lisa  and 
me,  and  which  I  never  used  to  mind.  Now,  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  not  endure  it,  and  slipped  away. 

"  I  don't  see,  Francis,  why  you  should  not  ask  such  a 
simple  question  yourself.     It  is  no  business  of  mine."  . 

"Then  you  really  know  nothing  of  Doctor  Urquhart's 
whereabouts  lately  ?     He  has  not  been  to  Rockmount  ?" 

"No." 

"Nor  written?" 

"I  believe  not.  Why  do  you  want  to  know?  Have 
you  been  quarreling  with  him  ?" 

For,  aware  they  two  were  not  over  fond  of  one  another, 
a  sudden  idea — so  ridiculously  romantic  that  I  laughed  at 
it  the  next  minute — made  me,  for  one  second,  turn  quite 
sick  and  cold. 

"  Quarreling,  my  dear  child — ^young  lady,  I  mean — am  I 
ever  so  silly,  so  ungentlemanly,  as  to  quarrel  with  any 
body?  .1  assure  you  not.  There  is^the  Dee!  What  a 
beautiful  view  this  is !" 

He  began  to  expatiate  on  its  beauties,  with  that  delicate 
appreciative  taste  which  he  has  in  such  perfection,  and  in 
the  expression  of  which  he  never  fails.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances, when  he  really  seems  pleased — not  languidly, 
but  actively,  and  tries  to  please  others,  I  grant  aU  Francis's 
claims  as  a  charming  companion — for  an  hour's  walk.  For 
life — ah !  that  is  a  different  matter !  When  with  him,  I 
often  think  of  Beatrice's  answer  when  Don  Pedro  asks  if 
she  will  have  him  as  a  husband  ?  "  Ao,  tny  lord^  unless  I 
might  have  another  for  loorMng-days.  Your  Grace  is  too 
costly  to  wear  every  dayP 

Love — fit  for  constant  wear  and  tear,  able  to  sink  safely 
down 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  191 

"to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  «ieed ;  by  sun  and  candlelight." 

must  be  a  rare  thing,  and  precious  as  rare. 

"  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  Christmas-eve.  Look,  Dora, 
the  sky  is  bhie  as  June.  How  sharp  and  clear  the  reflec- 
tion of  those  branches  in  the  river.  Heigho !  this  is  a  love- 
ly place.  What  a  difference  it  would  have  made  to  me  if 
Sir  William  had  never  married,  and  I  had  been  heir  to  Tre- 
herne  Court." 

"No  difference  to  you  in  yourself,"  said  I,  stoutly. 
"  Penelope  would  not  have  loved  you  one  whit  the  more, 
only  you  would  have  been  married  a  little  sooner,  which 
might  have  been  the  better  for  both  parties." 

"  Heaven  knows — yes,"  muttered  he,  in  such  anguish  of 
regret,  that  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  Then,  suddenly :  "  Do 
you  thmk  your  sister  is  tired  of  waiting?  Would  she 
wish  the— our  engagement  broken  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  Indeed,  I  meant  not  to  vex  you.  Penelope 
wishes  no  such  thing. 

"  K  she  did,"  and  he  looked  more  vexed  still,  "  it  would 
be  quite  natural." 

"  No,"  I  cried,  in  some  indignation,  "  it  would  not  be 
quite  natural.  Do  you  suppose  we  women  are  in  such  a 
frightful  hurry  to  be  married,  that  love  promised  and  sure, 
such  as  Penelope  has — or  ought  to  have — is  not  sufficient 
to  make  us  happy  for  any  number  of  years  ?  If  you  doubt 
it,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  You  don't  know 
women ;  least  of  all  such  as  my  sister  Penelope." 

"  Ay,  she  has  been  a  good,  faithful  girl,"  said  he,  again 
sighing.     "  Poor  Penelope." 

And  then  he  recurred  to  the  beautiful  scenery,  which  I, 
feehng  that  extreme  want  of  topics  of  conversation  which 
always  appals  me  in  tete-cl-tetes  with  Francis  Charteris — 
gladly  accepted.  It  lasted  till  we  re-entered  the  house, 
and,  not  unwillingly,  parted  company. 

After  luncheon — ^being  unable  to  find  any  body  in  this 
great,  wide  house — I  sat  in  my  own  room  awhile ;  till,  find- 
ing it  was  not  good  to  be  lazy  and  dreaming,  I  went  to 
Mrs.  Granton's  and  Hstened  to  her  pleasant  gossip  about 
people  with  whom  she  had  been  mixed  up  during  her  long 
life.  Who  have  every  one  this  remarkable  characteristic, 
that  they  are  all  the  very  best  people  that  ever  lived. 
The  burden  of  her  talk  is,  of  course  "  my  Colin,"  whom 
she  makes  out  to  be  the  most  angelic  babe,  the  sweetest 


192  A   LIFJL   FOU    A   LIFE. 

schoolboy,  tlie  noblest  youth,  and  the  most  perfect  man 
upon  this  poor  earth.  One  can  ncft  smile  at  the  fond  old 
mother.  Besides,  I  am  fond  of  Colin  myself.  Was  he  not 
my  first  love  ? 

Hush !  let  me  not,  even  in  jest,  profane  that  holy  word. 

I  sat  with  Mrs.  Granton  a  long  time — sometimes  hearing, 
sometimes  not ;  probably  saying  "  yes,"  and  "  no,"  and  "  cer- 
tainly," to  many  things  which  now  I  have  not  the  least 
idea  of.  My  thoughts  wandered — lulled  by  the  wind, 
which  began  to  rise  into  a  regular  Christmas  blast. 

Yes,  to-night  was  Christmas-eve,  and  all  the  Christmas 
guests  were  now  gathering  in  country-houses.  Ours,  too ; 
there  were  rings  at  the  resonant  door-bell,  and  feet  passing 
up  and  down  the  corridor.  I  like  to  recall — -just  for  a  mo- 
ment's delusion — ^the  sensations  of  that  hour,  between  the 
lights,  resting  by  Mrs.  Granton's  fire,  lazy,  warm,  content. 
The  only  drawback  to  my  content  was  the  thought  of  Pe- 
nelope, poor  girl,  all  alone  at  Rockmount,  and  expecting 
nobody. 

At  the  chressing-bell,  I  slipped  through  the  long,  half- 
dark  staircases  to  my  room.  As  it  was  to  be  a  large  party 
at  dinner,  I  thought  I  would  put  on  my  new  dress — Au- 
gustus's present;  black  velvet;  " horridly  old-womanish" 
Lisa  had  protested.  Yet  it  looked  well — ^I  stood  before 
the  glass  and  admired  myself  in  it ;  just  a  little.  I  was  so 
glad  to  look  well. 

Foolish  vanity — only  lasting  a  minute.  Yet  that  minute 
was  pleasant.  Lisabel,  who  came  into  my  room,  with  her 
husband  following  her  to  the  very  door,  must  have  real 
pleasure  in  her  splendors.     I  told  her  so. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  child !  Why  I  am  as  vexed  and  cross  as 
possible.  So  many  disappointments  to-night.  People  with 
colds,  and  rheumatism,  and  dead  relatives." 

"Oh,  Lisa!" 

"  Well,  but  is  it  not  annoying  ?  Every  body  wanted 
does  not  come ;  those  not  wanted,  do.  For  instance :  Doc- 
tor Urquhart,  who  always  keeps  both  papa  and  Sir  William 
in  the  best  of  humors,  is  not  here.  And  Francis,  who  fidg- 
ets them  both  to  death,  and  who  I  was  so  thankful  was  not 
coming — he  is  just  come.  You  stupid  girl,  you  seem  not 
the  least  bit  sorry ;  you  are  thinking  of  something  else  the 
whole  time." 

I  said  I  was  sorry,  and  was  not  thinking  of  any  thing 
else. 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  193 

"Augustus  wanted  to  see  him  particularly ;  but  I  forgot, 
you  don't  know — however,  you  will  soon,  child.  Still,  isn't 
it  a  downright  shame  of  Doctor  Urquhart  neither  to  come 
nor  send  ?" 

I  suggested  something  might  have  happened. 

"A  railway  accident.  Dear  me,  I  never  thought  of 
that," 

"  Kor  L"     Heaven  knows,  no  * 

I  had  a  time-table,  and  searched  through  it  for  the  last 
train  stopping  at  Whitchester,  then  counted  how  long  it 
would  take  to  drive  to  Treherne  Court,  and  looked  at  my 
watch.     N^o,  he  could  not  be  here  to-night. 

"  And  if  there  had  been  any  accident,  there  was  time  for 
us  to  have  heard  of  it,"  said  Lisa,  and  she  took  up  her  fan 
and  gloves  to  go  down  stairs.  "  So,  child,  we  must  make 
the  best  we  ca.n  of  your  friend's  behavior.  Ai'e  you  ready 
for  dinner?" 

"  In  two  minutes." 

I  shut  the  door  after  my  sister,  and  stood  still  before  the 
glass,  fastening  a  brooch,  or  somethmg. 

Mine,  my  friend.  He  was  that.  Whenever  they  were 
vexed  with  him,  all  the  family  usually  called  him  so. 

It  was  very  strange  his  not  coming — having  promised 
Augustus,  for  some  reason  which  I  did  not  know  of.  Also, 
there  was  another  reason — which  they  did  not  know  of — 
he  had  promised  me.  He  once  said  to  me,  positively,  that 
this,  the  first  Christmas  he  has  kept  in  England  for  many 
years,  should  be  kept  with  us,  with  me. 

Now,  a  promise  is  a  promise.  I  myself  would  keep  one 
at  all  costs  that  involved  no  wrong  to  any  one  else.  He  is 
of  the  same  mind.     Then  something  must  have  happened. 

For  a  moment  I  had  been  angry,  though  scarcely  with 
him ;  wherever  he  was  he  would  be  doing  his  duty.  Yet, 
why  should  he  be  always  doing  his  duty  to  every  one  eoc- 
eept  me  ?  Had  I  no  right  ?  I,  to  whom  even  Lisa,  who 
knew  nothing,  called  him  my  friend  ? 

Yes,  mi7ie  I  Of  a  sudden  I  seemed  to  feel  all  that  the 
word  meant,  and  to  take  ah  the  burden  of  it.  It  quieted 
me. 

I  went  down  stairs.  There  were  the  usual  two  lines  of 
dmner-table  faces,  the  usual  murmur  of  dinner-table  talk, 
but  all  was  dim  and  uncertain,  like  a  picture,  or  the  sound 
of  people  chattering  very  far  off.  Colin  beside  me  kept 
talking  about  how  well  I  looked  in  my  new  gown-^^how  he 


194  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

would  like  to  see  me  dressed  as  fine  as  a  queen — and  how 
he  hoped  we  should  spend  many  a  Christmas  as  merry  as 
this — till  something  seemed  tempting  me  to  start  up  and 
scream. 

At  dessert,  the  butler  brought  in  a  large  letter  to  Sir 
WiUiam.  It  was  a  telegraph  message — I  recognized  the 
look  of  the  thing ;  we  had  several  during  papa's  illness. 
Easy  to  sit  still  now.  I  seemed  to  know  quite  well  what 
was  coming,  but  the  only  clear  thought  was  still  "  mine — 
mine  P 

Sir  William  read,  folded  up  the  message,  and  passed  it 
on  to  Augustus,  then  rose. 

"  Friends,  fill  your  glasses.  I  have  just  had  good  news ; 
not  unexpected,  but  still  good  news.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  have  the  honor  to  give  you  the  health  of  my  neph- 
ew, Francis  Charteris,  Esquire,  Governor  elect  of ." 

In  the  cheering,  confusion,  and  congratulation  that  fol- 
lowed, Lisa  passed  the  telegram  to  me,  and  I  saw  it  was 
from  *'  Max  Urquhart,  London." 

As  soon  as  we  got  into  a  corner  by  ourselves,  my  sister 
burst  out  with  the  whole  mystery. 

"  Thank  goodness  it's  over ;  I  never  kept  a  secret  be- 
fore, and  Augustus  was  so  frightened  lest  I  should  tell,  and 
then  what  would  Doctor  Urquhart  have  said  ?  It's  Doc- 
tor Urquhart's  planning,  and  he  was  to  have  brought  the 
good  news  to-day ;  and  I'm  very  sorry  I  abused  him,  for  he 
has  been  working  hke  a  horse  for  Francis's  interest,  and — 
did  you  ever  see  a  young  fellow  take  a  piece  of  good  for- 
tune so  coolly? — a  lovely  West  Indian  island,  with  govern- 
ment house,  and  salary  large  enough  to  make  Penelope  a 
most  magnificent  governor's  wife,  yet  he  is  no  more  thank- 
ful for  it — I  declare  I  am  ashamed  of  Francis  Charteris." 

She  went  on  a  good  deal  more  in  this  fashion,  but  I  had 
nothmg  to  say — I  felt  so  strange  and  confused — ^till  at  last 
I  leaned  my  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  cried  softly,  which 
brought  me  into  great  opprobrium,  and  subjected  me  to  the 
accusation  of  always  weeping  when  there  was  the  least 
prospect  of  a  marriage  in  the  family. 

Marriage!  just  at  that  moment  there  might  not  have 
been  such  a  thing  as  marriage  in  the  world.  I  never 
thought  of  it.  I  only  thought  of  life — a  life  still  kept  safe, 
laboring  busily  to  make  every  body  happy,  true  to  itself 
and  to  its  promises,  forgetting  nothing  and  no  one,  kind  to 
the  thankful  and  unthankful  alike.     Compared  to  it,  my 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  195 

o^yn  insignificant  life,  with  its  small  hopes  and  petty  pains, 
all  crumbled  down  into  nothingness. 

"  WeU,  are  you  glad,  Dora  ?" 

Ay,  I  was ;  very  glad — very  content. 

Papa  came  in  soon,  and  he  and  I  walked  up  and  down, 
arm-in-arm,  talking  the  matter  over,  till,  seeing  Francis  sit- 
ting alone  in  a  recess,  we  went  up  to  him,  and  papa  again 
wished  him  all  happiness.  He  merely  said  "  Thank  you," 
and  muttered  something  about  "wishmg  to  explain  by- 
and-by." 

"  Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  I  am  shortly  to  be  left 
with  only  one  girl  to  take  care  of  me — eh !  Francis,"  said 
papa,  smiling. 

"Sir — I  did  not  mean — I,"  he  actually  stammered.  "I 
hope,  Mr.  Johnston,  you  imderstand  that  this  appointment  is 
not  yet  accepted — indeed,  I  am  uncertain  if  I  shall  accept  it." 

Papa  looked  exceedingly  surprised ;  and,  remembering 
some  of  Francis's  sayings  to  me  this  mornmg,  I  was  rather 
more  than  surprised — indignant.  But  no  remark  was 
made,  and  just  then  Augustus  called  the  whole  party  to  go 
down  into  the  great  kitchen  and  see  the  Christmas  mum- 
mers or  guizers,  as  they  are  called  in  that  county. 

We  looked  at  them  for  a  long  half  hour,  and  then  every 
body,  great  and  small,  got  into  the  full  whui  of  Christmas 
merriment.  Colin,  in  particular,  grew  so  lively  that  he 
wanted  to  lead  me  under  the  mistletoe ;  but  when  I  de- 
clined, first  gayly,  and  then  seriously,  he  desisted,  saying  he 
w^ould  not  offend  me  for  the  world.  Nevertheless,  he  and 
one  or  two  more  kissed  Lisabel.  How  could  she  endure 
it?  when  I — I  now  sometimes  feel  jealous  over  even  a 
strange  touch  of  this  my  hand. 

The  revels  ended  early,  and,  as  I  sit  wi-iting,  the  house  is 
all  still.  I  have  just  drawn  up  my  blind  and  looked  out. 
The  wind  has  sunk;  snow  is  falliiig.  I  hke  snow  on  a 
Christmas  morning. 

Already  it  is  Christmas  morning.  Whom  have  I  unto 
whom  to  wish  those  good  wishes  which  always  lie  nearest 
to  one's  heart  ?  My  own  family,  of  course ;  papa  and  Lisa, 
and  Penelope,  far  away.  Poor,  dear  Penelope !  May  she 
find  herself  a  happy  woman  this  time  next  year.  Are  these 
all  ?  They  were,  last  Christmas.  But  I  am  richer  now — 
richer,  it  often  seems  to  me,  than  ^ny  body  in  the  whole 
world. 

Good-night !  a  merry — no,  for  "  often  m  mirth  the  heart 
is  sad" — ahappy  Christmas  and  a  good  new  year ! 


196  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XVin. 

HIS   STOKY. 

Dec.  Slst,  1856. 

The  meny-making  of  my  neighbors  in  the  flat  above — 
probably  Scotch  or  Irish,  both  of  which  greatly  abound  in 
this  town — is  a  sad  counteraction  of  work  to-night.  But 
why  grumble,  when  I  am  one  of  the  few  people  who  pre- 
tend to  work  at  all  on  so  merry  a  night,  which  used  to  be 
such  a  treat  to  us  boys  ?  The  sounds  overhead  put  me  in 
mind  of  that  old  festival  of  Hogmanay,  which,  for  a  good 
many  things,  would  be  "  more  honored  in  the  breach  than 
the  observance." 

This  Liverpool  is  an  awful  town  for  drinking.  Other 
towns  may  be  as  bad ;  statistics  prove  it ;  but  I  know  no 
place  where  intoxication  is  so  open  and  shameless.  'Not 
only  in  by-streets  and  foul  courts,  where  one  expects  to  see 
it,  but  every  where.  I  never  take  a  short  railway  journey 
in  the  after  part  of  the  day  but  I  am  liable  to  meet  at  least 
one  drmiken  "  gentleman"  snoozing  in  his  first-class  car- 
riage ;  or,  in  the  second  class,  two  or  three  drunken  "  men" 
singing,  swearing,  or  pushed  stupidly  about  by  pale-faced 
wives.  The  sadness  of  the  thing  is,  that  the  wives  do  not 
seem  to  mind  it — that  every  body  takes  it  as  a  matter  of 
course.  The  "  gentleman,"  often  gray-haired,  is  but  "  mer- 
ry," as  he  is  accustomed  to  be  every  night  of  his  life ;  the 
poor  man  has  only  "  had  a  drop  or  two,"  as  all  his  com- 
rades are  in  the  habit  of  taking  whenever  they  get  the 
chance ;  they  see  no  disgrace  in  it,  so  they  laugh  at  him  a 
bit,  and  humor  him,  and  are  quite  ready  to  stand  up  for 
him  against  all  in-comers  who  may  object  to  an  intoxicated 
fellow-passenger.  *  The^  don't,  nor  do  the  women  belong- 
ing to  them,  who  are  well  used  to  tolerate  drunken  sweet- 
hearts, and  lead  about  and  pacify  drunken  husbands.  It 
makes  me  sick  at  heart  sometimes  to  see  a  decent,  pretty 
girl  sit  tittering  at  a  foul-mouthed  beast  opposite ;  or  a 
tidy  young  mother,  with  two  or  three  bonny  children,  try- 
ing to  coax  home,  without  harm  to  himself  or  them,  some 
brutish  husband,  who  does  not  know  his  right  hand  from 
his  left,  so  utterly  stupid  is  he  with  drink.     To-night,  but 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  197 

for  my  chance-hand  at  a  railway  station,  such  a  family- 
party  as  this  might  have  reached  home  fatherless^and  no 
great  misfortune,  one  might  suppose.  Yet  the^^ife  had 
not  even  looked  sad — ^had  only  scolded  and  laughed  at 
him. 

In  this,  as  in  most  cases  of  reform,  it  is  the  woman  who 
must  make  the  first  step.  There  are  two  great  sms  of 
men :  drunkemiess  in  the  lower  classes ;  a  still  worse  form 
of  vice  in  the  higher,  which  I  believe  women  might  help 
to  stop,  if  they  tried.  Would  to  God  I  could  cry  to  ev- 
ery young  v/orking  woman,  "^ever  encourage  a  drunken 
sweet-heart !"  and  to  every  young  lady  thinking  of  mar- 
riage, "  Beware !  better  die  than  live  to  give  children  to  a 
loose-principled,  unchaste  father." 

These  are  strong  words — dare  I  leave  them  for  eyes  that 
may,  years  hence,  read  this  page  ?  Ay,  for  by  then,  they 
wiU — they  must,  in  the  natural  course  of  tlungs,  have  gain- 
ed at  least  a  tithe  of  my  own  bitter  knowledge  of  the  world. 
God  preserve  them  from  all  knowledge  beyond  what  is  act- 
ually necessary.  When  I  think  of  any  suftering  coming  to 
them,  any  sight  of  sin  or  avoidable  sorrow  troublmg  those 
dear  eyes,  it  almost  drives  me  mad.  If,  for  instance,  you 
were  to  marry  any  man  like  some  men  I  have  known,  and 
who  indeed  form  the  majority  of  our  sex,  and  he  were  un- 
kind to  you,  or  wronged  you  in  the  smallest  degree,  I  think 
I  could  murd 

Hush,  not  that  word ! 

You  see  how  my  mind  keeps  wandering  purposelessly, 
haAong  nothing  to  communicate.  I  had  indeed,  for  some 
time,  avoided  writing  here  at  all.  And  I  have  been,  and 
am,  necessarily  occupied,  lajdng  the  ground-work  of  that 
new  plan  of  life  which  I  explained  to  you. 

Its  whole  bearing  you  did  not  see,  nor  did  I  intend  you 
should  ;  though  your  own  words  originated  it ;  lit  it  with 
a  ray  of  hope  so  exquisite  that  I  could  foUow  on  cheerfully 
for  indefinite  years. 

It  only  lasted  an  hour  or  two ;  and  then  your  father's 
words — though,  God  be  praised,  they  were  not  yours — 
plunged  me  into  darkness  again ;  a  darkness  out  of  which 
I  had  never  crept,  had  I  been  still  the  morbid  coward  I  was 
a  year  ago. 

As  it  was,  you  little  guessed  all  the  thoughts  you  shut  in 
with  me  behind  the  study  door,  till  your  light  foot  came 
back  to  it— that  niglit.    W'or  that  in  the  interval  I  had  had 


198  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

Strength  to  weigli  all  circumstances,  and  formed  a  definite 
deliberate  plan,  firm  as  I  believe  my  heart  to  be — since  I 
knew  you. 

I  have  resolved,  in  consequence  of  some  words  of  yours, 
to  change  my  whole  scheme  of  life.  That  is,  I  will  at  some 
future  day,  near  or  far,  circumstances  must  decide — submit 
to  you  every  event  of  my  history,  and  then  ask  you,  dis- 
passionately, as  a  friend,  to  decide  if  I  shall  still  live  on, 
according  to  my  purpose,  in  prospect  of  the  end^  or,  shak- 
ing off  the  burden  of  it,  shall  trust  in  God's  mercy,  consider 
all  things  past  and  gone,  and  myself  at  liberty,  like  any 
other,  to  love,  and  woo,  and  marry. 

Afterward,  according  to  your  decision,  may  or  may  not 
follow  that  other  question — the  very  hope  and  suspense  of 
which  is  hke  passing  into  a  new  lile,  through  the  gate  of 
death. 

Your  father  said  distinctly — but  I  will  not  repeat  it.  It 
is  enough  to  make  me  dread  to  win  my  best  blessing,  lest 
I  might  also  win  her  father's  curse.  To  evoke  that  curse, 
knowingly  to  sow  dissension  between  a  man  and  his  own 
daughter,  is  an  awful  thing.  I  dare  not  do  it.  During  his 
lifetime  I  must  wait. 

So,  for  the  present,  farewell,  innocent  child !  for  no  child 
can  be  more  innocent  and  happy  than  you. 

But  you  will  not  always  be  a  child.  If  you  do  not  mar- 
ry— and  you  seem  of  an  oj)posite  mind  to  your  sisters  in 
that  particular  —  you  will,  years  hence,  be  a  woman,  no 
longer  young,  perhaps  little  sought  after,  for  you  are  not 
beautiful  to  most  eyes,  nor  from  your  peculiar  temperament 
do  you  please  many  people.  By  then,  you  may  have  known 
care  and  sorrow — will  be  an  orphan  and  alone.  I  should 
despise  myself  for  reckoning  up  these  possibilities,  did  I 
not  know  that  in  so  far  as  any  human  hand  can  shield  you 
from  trouble,  you  shall  be  shielded,  that  while  poor  life 
lasts,  you  never  shall  be  left  desolate. 

I  have  given  up  entirely  my  intention  of  quitting  En- 
gland. Even  if  I  am  not  able  to  get  sight  of  you  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end,  if  I  have  to  stretch  out  and  dimin- 
ish to  the  slenderest  link  which  will  remain  unbroken  my 
acquaintance  with  your  family,  I  must  keep  within  reach 
of  you.  Nothing  must  happen  to  you  or  any  one  belong- 
ing to  you,  without  my  informing  myself  of  it.  And  though 
you  may  forget — I  say  .not  you  will,  but  you  may — I  am 
none  the  less  resolved  that  you  shall  never  lose  me,  while 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  199 

a  man  can  protect  a  woman,  a  friend  sustain  and  comfort  a 
friend. 

You  will  probably  set  down  to  mere  friendship  one  in- 
sane outburst  of  mine.  Wrong,  I  confess ;  but  to  see  you 
standing  in  the  lamplight,  looking  after  me  into  the  dark, 
with  a  face  so  tender,  mild,  and  sweet,  and  to  know  I  should 
not  look  at  that  face  agam  for  so  long,  it  nearly  maddened 
me.     But  you  were  calm — you  would  not  understand. 

It  will  never  do  for  me  to  see  you  often,  or  to  live  in 
your  neighborhood,  and  therefore  it  was  best  to  take  im- 
mediate steps  for  the  change  I  contemj)late,  and  of  which  I 
told  you.  Accordingly,  the  very  next  day,  I  applied  for 
leave  of  absence.  The  colonel  was  just  riding  over  to  call 
at  Rockmount,  so  I  sent  a  message  to  your  father.  I  shrank 
from  writing  to  him :  to  you  it  was  of  course  impossible. 
In  this,  as  in  many  a  future  instance,  I  can  only  trust  to 
that  good  heart  which  knows  me — ^not  wholly — alas !  will 
it  ever  know  me  wholly  ?  but  better  than  any  other  human 
being  does,  or  ever  will.  I  believe  it  will  judge  me  chari- 
tably, patiently,  faithfully ;  for  i^  it  not  itself  the  truest, 
simplest,  faithfulest  heart  ? 

Let  me  here  say  one  word.  I  believe  there  is  no  love  in 
it ;  nothing  that  need  make  a  man  hesitate  lest  his  own 
happiness  should  not  be  the  only  sacrifice.  Sympathy, 
affection,  you  have  for  me ;  but  I  cT^o  not  think  you  ever 
knew  what  love  was.  Any  one  worthy  of  you  may  yet 
have  free  opportunity  of  winning  you — of  making  you 
happy.  And  if  I  saw  you  happy,  thoroughly  and  right- 
eously happy,  I  could  endm-e  it. 

I  will  tell  you  my  plans, 

I  am  trying  for  the  appointment  of  surgeon  to  a  jail  near 
this  town.  I  hope  to  obtam  it :  for  it  will  open  a  wide 
field  of  work — to  me  the  salt  of  life :  and  it  is  only  fifty 
miles  from  Treherne  Court,  where  you  will  visit,  and  where, 
from  time  to  time,  I  may  be  able  to  meet  you. 

You  see — this  my  hope,  dim  as  it  is  in  the  future,  and 
vague  enough  as  to  present  comfort — does  not  make  me 
weaker  but  stronger  for  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life; 
therefore  I  believe  it  to  be  a  holy  hope,  and  one  that  I  dare 
carry  along  with  me  in  all  my  worldly  doings  and  plan- 
nings.  Beheve  one  fact — ^fbr  my  nature  has  sufficient  unity 
of  purpose  never  to  do  things  by  halves — that  no  smgle 
plan,  or  act,  or  thought,  is  without  reference  to  you. 

Shall  I  tell  you  my  ways  and  means,  as  calculated  to- 
cight,  the  last  night  of  the  year  ? 


200  A  LIFE   FOR  A  LIFE. 

Selling  out  of  the  army  will  supply  me  with  a  good  sum. 
Which  I  mean  to  put  by,  letting  the  interest  accumulate, 
as  a  provision  for  accidental  illness,  or  old  age,  if  I  live  to 
be  old :  or  for — do  you  guess  ? 

My  salary  will  be  about  £300  a  year.  ISTow,  half  of  that 
ought  to  suffice  a  man  of  my  moderate  habits.  Many  a 
poor  clerk,  educated  and  obhged  to  appear  as  a  gentleman, 
has  no  larger  income,  and  contrives  to  marry  upon  it,  too,, 
if  love  seizes  hold  of  him  while  still  in  the  venturesome 
stage  of  existence. 

We  men  are  strange  animals :  at  twenty,  ready  to  rush 
into  matrimony  on  any  prospects  whatever,  or  none  at  all ; 
at  thirty,  having  thought  better  of  it,  rejoice  in  our  escape ; 
but  after  forty,  when  the  shadows  begin  to  fall,  when  the 
outer  world  darkens,  and  the  fii'eside  feels  comfortless  and 
lone,  then  we  sit  and  ponder — I  mean,  most  men.  Mine  is 
an  individual  and  special  case,  not  germane  to  the  subject. 

With  all  deference  to  young  Tom  Turton,  his  friend  Mr. 
Charteris,  and  others  of  the  set  which  I  have  lately  been 
among  in  London,  the  sum  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year  seems  to  me  sufficient  to  maintain  in  as  much  com- 
fort as  is  good  for  him,  and  in  all  the  necessary  outward 
decencies  of  middle-class  life,  a  man  without  any  expensive 
habits  or  relations  dependent  on  him,  and  who  has  neither 
wife  nor  child. 

N'either  wife  nor  child !  As  I  write  them,  the  words 
smite  hard. 

To  have  no  wife,  no  child!  ll^ever  to  seek  what  the 
idlest,  most  drunken  loon  of  a  mechanic  may  get  for  the 
asking ;  never  to  experience  the  joy  which  I  saw  on  a  poor 
fellow's  face  only  yesterday ;  when,  in  the  same  room  with 
one  dead  lad,  and  another  sickening,  the  wife  brought  into 
the  world  a  third,  a  living  child,  and  the  ragged,  starved 
father  cried  out,  "  Lord  be  thankit !"  that  it  was  a  livino: 
child. 

0  Lord,  Thy  ways  are  equal :  it  is  ours  only  which  are 
unequal.  Forbid  it  Thou  that  I  should  have  given  Thee 
of  that  which  cost  me  nothing. 

Yet,  on  this  night — this  last  night  of  a  year  so  moment- 
ous— let  me  break  silence,  and  cry.  Thou  alone  wilt  hear. 

1  want  her- — 1  crave  her ;  my  very  heart  and  soul  are 
hungry  for  her !  Not  as  a  brief  possession,  like  gathering 
a  flower  and  wearying  of  it,  or  throwing  it  away.  I  want 
her  for  always — to  have  her  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  day 


A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE.  201 

after  day,  and  year  after  year ;  happy  or  sorrowful,  good 
or  faulty,  young  or  old — only  mine,  mine !  I  feel  some- 
times as  if,  found  thus  late,  all  eternity  could  not  give  me 
enough  of  her.  It  is  not  the  body  she  inhabits — though, 
from  head  to  foot,  my  love  is  all  fair,  fair  as  daylight  and 
pure  as  snow — it  is  herself  I  want,  ever  close  at  hand  to  be 
the  better  self  of  this  me,  who  have  tried  vainly  all  these 
years  to  stand  alone,  to  live  and  endure  alone !  Folly ! — 
proud  folly !  such  is  not  a  natural  state  of  things ;  God 
himself  said,  "  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone." 

I  thmk  I  never  shall  be  so  solitary  as  I  have  been.  That 
good  heart,  pure  and  unselfish  as  I  never  saw  woman's  be- 
fore, will  always  mcline  kindly  to  as  much  of  mine  as  I  dare 
show ;  those  sweet,  honest  eyes  will  never  be  less  trustful 
than  now — unless  I  gave  them  cause  to  doubt  me.  Her 
friendship,  hke  her  character,  is  steadfast  as  a  rock. 

But  oh !  if  she  loved  me !  If  I  were  one  of  those  poor 
clerks  at  a  hundred  a  year;  if  we  had  only  meat,  raiment, 
and  a  roof  to  cover  us,  and  she  loved  me !  If  I  were,  as  I 
might  have  been,  a  young  doctor,  toiling  day  and  night, 
with  barely  tune  for  food  and  sleep ;  but  with  a  home  to 
come  to,  and  hereto  love  me !  If  we  sat  in  this  room,  bare 
and  mean  as  it  is,  with  this  scanty  supper  between  us,  ask- 
ing God's  blessing  upon  it,  while  her  hand  in  mine  and  her 
lij)s  on  my  forehead  told  me,  "  Max,  I  love  you !" 

God  forgive  me  if  I  murmur !  I  am  not  young ;  my  life 
is  slij)ping  away — ^my  life,  which  is  owed.  Oh!  that  I 
might  live  long  enough  to  teach  her  to  say,  "  Max,  I  love 
you !" 

Enough.  The  last  minutes  of  this  year — this  blessed 
year !  shail  not  be  wasted  in  moans. 

Already  the  streets  are  growing  quiet.  People  do  not 
seem  to  keep  this  festival  here  as  we  do,  north  of  the  Tweed ; 
they  think  more  of  Christmas.  Most  likely  she  will  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  day,  and  be  peacefully  sleeping  the 
old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in — this  little  English  girl. 
Well,  I  am  awake,  and  that  will  do  for  both. 

My  letter  to  Treherne — could  you  have  seen  it  ?  I  sup- 
pose you  did.  It  made  no  excuses  for  not  coining  at 
Christmas,  because  I  intended  to  come  and  see  you  to-mor- 
row. I  mean  to  wish  you  a  happy  New  Year  on  this,  the 
first  smce  I  knew  you,  since  I  was  aware  of  there  being 
such  a  little  creature  existing  in  the  world. 

Also,  I  mean  to  come  and  see  you  every  ]N'ew  Year,  if 
12 


202  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

possible;  the  word  possible  implying,  so  far  as  my  own 
will  can  control  circumstances.  I  desire  to  see  you ;  it  is 
life  to  me  to  see  you,  and  see  you  I  will.  Not  often,  for  I 
dare  not,  but  as  often  as  I  dare.  And — for  I  have  faith  in 
anniversaries — always  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  I  first 
saw  you,  and  on  'New  Year's  Day. 

One — two — three ;  I  waited  for  the  clock  to  cease  strik- 
ing, and  now  all  the  bells  are  ringing  from  every  church 
tower.  Is  this  an  English  custom?  I  must  ask  you  to- 
morrow, that  is,  to-day,  for  it  is  ihorning — it  is  the  New 
Year. 

My  day-dawn,  my  gift  of  God,  my  little  English  girl,  a 
happy  New  Year.  Max  Ueqtjhaet. 


# 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HER   STORY. 

New  Year's  Mornes^g.     So  this  long-anticipated  festi- 
val week  is  ended,  and  the  old  year  gone.     Poor  old  year ! 
' '  He  gave  me  a  friend  and  a  true,  true  love, 
And  the  New  Year  will  take  them  away." 

Ah !  no,  no,  no. 

Things  are  strange.  The  utmost  I  can  say  of  them  is 
that  they  seem  very  strange.  One  would  suppose,  if  one 
liked  a  friend,  and  there  existed  no  reasonable  cause  for  not 
showing  it,  why  one  would  show  it  just  a  little  ?  That, 
with  only  forty  miles  between — a  half  hour's  railway  ride 
— not  to  run  over  and  shake  hands ;  to  write  a  letter  and 
not  to  mention  one's  name  therein,  was,  at  leas1>,  strange. 
Such  a  small  thing,  even  under  any  pressure  of  business — 
just  a  line  written,  an  hour  spared.  Talk  of  want  of  time ! 
Why,  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  make  time,  I  would — 

Simpleton !  what  would  you  do,  indeed,  when  your  plain- 
est duty  you  do  not  do — just  to  wait  and  trust. 

Yet  I  do  trust.  Once  believing  in  people,  I  believe  in 
them  always,  against  all  evidence  except  their  own — ay, 
and  should  to  the  very  last — "  until  death  us  do  part." 

Those  words  have  set  me  right  again,  showing  me  that  I 
am  not  afraid,  either  for  myself  or  any  other,  even  of  that 
change.  As  I  have  read  somewhere,  all  pure  love  of  every 
kind  partakes  in  this  of  the  nature  of  the  love  divine,  "  nei- 
ther life  nor  death,  nor  things  present  nor  things  to  come, 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  203 

nor  height  nor  depth,  nor  any  other  creature,"  are^able  to 
separate  or  annihilate  it.  One  feels  that — ^or  if  one  does 
not  feel  it,  it  is  not  true  love,  is  worth  nothing,  and  had 
better  be  let  go. 

I  write  idly,  perhaps  from  having  been  somewhat  tu-ed 
this  week.  Let  me  tell  my  troubles ;  it  is  only  to  this  pa- 
per. Troubles,  indeed,  they  scarcely  deserve  to  be  called, 
had  they  not  happened  in  this  festive  week,  when  every 
one  expected  to  be  so  uncommonly  happy. 

First,  there  was  Francis's  matter,  which  ought  to  have 
been  a  great  joy,  and  yet  has  seemed  to  weigh  us  down 
like  a  great  care;  perhajis  because  the  individual  most 
concerned  took  it  as  such,  never  once  looking  pleased,  nor 
giving  a  hearty  "thank  you"  to  a  single  congratulation. 
Also,  instead  of  coming  to  talk  over  his  happy  prospects 
with  papa  and  me,  he  has  avoided  us  pertinaciously.  When- 
ever we  lighted  upon  him,  it  was  sure  to  be  by  accident, 
and  he  slipped  away  as  soon  as  he  could,  to  do  the  pohte 
to  Treherne  cousins,  or  to  play  interminably  at  billiards, 
which  he  considered  "the  most  fascinating  game  in  the 
world." 

I  hate  it.  What  can  be  the  charm  of  jorowling  for  hours 
round  and  round  a  green-baize  table,  trying  to  knock  so 
many  red  and  white  balls  into  so  many  holes,  I  never  could 
discover,  and  told  him  so.  He  laughed,  and  said  it  was 
only  my  ignorance ;  but  Colin,  who  stood  by,  blushed  up 
to  the  eyes,  and  almost  immediately  l^eft  off  playing.  Who 
would  have  supposed  the  lad  so  sensitive  ? 

I  am  beginning  to  understand  the  interest  taken  by  a 
friend  of  theirs  and  mine  in  these  two  young  men,  Augustus 
Treherne  and  Cohn  Granton.  Though  neither  particularly 
clever,  they  have  both  two  qualities  sufficiently  rare  in  all 
men  to  make  one  thankful  to  find  them  in  any — upright- 
ness of  character  and  unselfishness  of  disposition.  By-the- 
by,  I  never  knew  but  one  thoroughly  unselfish  man  in  all 
my  life,  and  that  was — 

Well,  and  it  was  7iot  Francis  Charteris,  of  whom  I  am 
now  speaking.  The  aforesaid  little  interchange  of  civihty 
passed  between,  him  and  me  on  the  Saturday  after  Christ- 
mas-day, when  I  had  been  searching  for  him  with  a  letter 
from  Penelope.  (There  was  in  the  post-bag  another  letter, 
addressed  to  Sir  William,  which  made  me  feel  sure  we 
should  have  no  more  guests  to-day,  nor,  consequently,  till 
Monday.     Indeed,  the  letter,  which,  after  some  difficulty,  I 


204  A   LIPE   FOR    A   LIFE. 

obtained  in  the  shape  of  cigar-hghters,  made  no  mention 
of  any  such  possibihty  at  all ;  but,  then,  it  had  been  a 
promise.) 

Francis  put  my  sister's  note  mto  his  pocket,  and  went  on 
with  the  game  so  earnestly  that  when  Augustus  came  be- 
hind and  caught  hold  of  him,  he  started  as  if  he  had  been 
collared  by  a  policeman. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  beg  pardon,  but  the  governor  want3 
to  know  if  yoii  have  written  that  letter  ?" 

Lisa  had  told  me  what  it  was — the  letter  of  acceptance 
of  the  appointment  ojffered  him,  which  ought  to  have  been 
sent  immediately. 

Francis  looked  annoyed.  *'  Plenty  of  time.  My  compli- 
ments to  Sir  WilUam,  and  I'll — ^think  about  it." 

"  Cool !"  muttered  Augustus.  "  'Tis  your  look  out,  Char- 
teris,  not  mine — only,  one  way  or  other,  your  answer  must 
go  to-day,  for  my  father  has  heard  from — " 

Here  he  remed  up,  as  he  himself  Avould  say ;  but  having 
seen  the  handwriting  in  the  post-bag,  I  guessed  who  was 
meant. 

"  Heard  from  whom,  did  you  say  ?  Some  of  the  officious 
persons  who  are  always  so  obligmg  as  to  keep  my  uncle 
informed  of  my  affairs  ?" 

"  Nonsense — that  is  one  of  your  crotchets.  You  have 
no  warmer  friend  than  my  father,  if  only  you  wouldn't  rub 
him  up  the  wrong  way.  Come  along  and  have  done  with 
it ;  otherwise — you  know  him  of  old — ^the  old  gentleman 
will  get  uncommon  saVage." 

"  Though  I  have  the  honor  of  knowing  Sir  "WiUJam  Tre- 
herne  of  old,  I  really  can  not  be  accountable  for  his  becom- 
ing '  uncommon  savage,' "  said  Francis,  haughtily.  "  Mr. 
Granton,  will  you  be  marker  this  game  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  he  is  the  coolest  customer !  By  George, 
Charteris,  if  you  wanted  Penelope  as  much  as  I  did  my 
wife—" 

"Excuse  me,"  returned  Francis.  "Zhave  never  men- 
tioned Miss  Johnston's  name." 

Certainly  Augustus  goes  awkwardly  to  work  with  his 
cousin,  who  has  good  points  if  you  know  how  to  take  hold 
of  them.  To  use  my  brother-in-law's  own  phrase,  Francis 
too  gets  "rubbed  up  the  wrong  way,"  especially  when 
something  has  annoyed  him.  I  saw  him  afterward  stand 
by  a  window  of  the  library,  reading  Penelope's  letter,  with 
an  expression  of  such  perplexity  and  pain  that  I  should  have 


A    LITE   FOK   A   LIFE.  205 

been  alarmed,  had  not  hers  to  me  been  so  cheerful.  They 
can  not  have  been  quarreling,  for  then  she  is  never  cheer- 
ful. 1^0  wonder.  Silences,  or  shght  clouds  of  doubt  be- 
tween friends  are  hard  enough  to  bear :  a  real  quarrel,  and 
between  lovers,  must  be  heart-breaking.  "With  all  Francis's 
peculiarities,  1  trust  it  will  never  come  to  that. 

Yet  something  must  have  been  amiss,  for  there  he  stood, 
looking  out  vacantly  on  the  Itahan  garden,  wdth  the  dreary 
statues  half  clad  in  snow — on  Antinous,  almost  seeming  to 
shiver  under  any  thing  but  an  Egyptian  sky ;  and  a  white- 
limbed  Egeria  pouring  out  of  her  urn  a  stream  of  icicles. 
Of  my  presence  he  was  scarcely  conscious,  I  do  beheve,  un- 
til I  ventured  to  speak. 

"  Francis,  do  you  see  how  near  it  is  to  post-time  ?" 

Again  a  start,  which  with  difficulty  he  concealed.  "  Et 
tu  Brute  ?  You  also  among  my  tormentors  ? — I  quit  the 
field." 

— And  the  room :  whence  he  was  just  escaping,  had  not 
his  uncle's  wheeled-chair  filled  up  the  door-way. 

"  Just  in.  search  of  you" — cried  the  querulous  voice,  which 
Francis  declares  goes  through  his  nervous  system  hke  a  gal- 
yanio  shock.     "  Have  you  written  that  letter  ?" 

"  My  dear  Sir  Wilham— " 

"  Have  you  written  that  letter  ?" 

''  N"o,  sir,  but—" 

"  Can't  wait  for  '  buts' — -I  know  your  ways.  There's  pen 
and  uik — and — ^I  mean  to  wait  here  till  the  letter  is  done." 

I  thought  Francis  would  have  been  indignant.  And  with 
reason: "Sir  William,  spite  of  his  good  blood,  is  certainly  a 
degree  short  of  a  gentleman ;  but  old  habit  may  have  force 
with  his  nephew,  who,  vv"itho\Tt  more  remonstrance,  quietly 
sat  down  to  write. 

A  long  half  hour,  only  broken  by  the  rustle  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam's Times,  and  Lady  Augusta's  short  cough — she  was 
more  nervous  than  usual,  and  whisjDered  me  that  she  hoped 
Mr.  Charteris  would  not  ofiend  his  uncle,  for  the  gout  was 
threatening.  An  involuntary  feeliug  of  suspense  oppressed 
even  me ;  until,  slippiug  across  the  room,  I  saw  that  a  few 
stray  scribbhngs  was  the  only  writing  on  Francis's  sheet 
of  paper. 

That  intolerable  procrastination  of  his !  he  would  let  ev- 
ery thing  slij) — ^his  credit,  his  happiness — and  not  his  alone. 
And,  the  more  people  irritated  him,  the  worse  he  was.  I 
thought,  in  despair,  I  would  try  my  hand  at  this  incorrigi- 


206  A   LIFE   FOK    A   LIFE. 

ble  young  man,  who  makes  me  often  feel  as  if,  clever  and 
pleasing  as  lie  is,  he  were  not  half  good  enough  for  our  Pe- 
nelope. 

"  Francis  !"  I  held  out  my  watch  with  a  warning  whis- 
per. He  caught  at  it  with  great  relief,  and  closed  the  let- 
ter-case. 

"  Too  late  for  to-day ;  I'll  do  it  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  will  indeed  be  too  late ;  Augustus  said  so 
distinctly.  The  appointment  will  be  given  to  some  one 
else — and  then — " 

"And  then,  you  acute,  logical,  business-like  young  lady  ?" 

There  was  no  time  for  ultra-delicacy.  "And  then  you 
may  not  be  able  to  marry  Penelope  for  ten  more  years." 

"  Penelope  will  be  exceedingly  obhged  to  you  for  sug- 
gesting the  possibility,  and  taking  me  to  task  for  it  in  this 
way — such  a  child  as  you  ?" 

Am  I  a  child?  but  it  mattered  not  to  him  how  old  I 
seem  to  have  grown.  Nor  did  his  satirical  tone  vex  me 
as  it  once  might  have  done. 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said ;  "  I  did  not  mean  to  take  you  to 
task.  But  it  is  not  your  own  happiness  alone  which  is  at 
stake,  and  Penelope  is  my  sister." 

Strange  to  say,  he  was  not  offended.  Perhaps,  if  Penel- 
ope had  spoken  her  mind  to  him,  instead  of  everlastingly 
adoring  him,  he  might  have  been  the  better  for  it. 

Francis  sighed,  and  made  another  scribble  on  his  paper 
— "Do  you  think,  you  who  seem  to  be  well  acquainted 
with  your  sister's  mind,  that  Penelope  would  be  exceed- 
ingly unhappy  if — if  I  were  to  decline  this  appointment  ?" 

"  Decline — oh ! — you're  jesting." 

"  Not  at  all.  The  governorship  looks  far  finer  than  it  is. 
A  hot  chmate — and  I  detest  warm  weather ;  no  society — 
and  I  should  lose  all  my  London  enjoyments — give  up  all 
my  friends  and  acquaintance." 

"  So  would  Penelope." 

"  So  would  Penelope,  as  you  say.     But — " 

"  But  women  count  that  as  nothing — they  are  used  to  it. 
Easy  for  them  to  renounce  home  and  country,  kindred  and 
friends,  and  follow  a  man  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Quite 
natural,  and  they  ought  to  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  him 
for  taking  them." 

He  looked  at  me ;  then  begged  me  not  to  fly  into  a  pas- 
sion, as  somebody  might  hear. 

I  said  he  might  trust  me  for  that ;  I  would  rather  not, 


A   LIFE   FOK   A  LIFE.  207 

for  Ms  sake — ^for  all  our  sakes,  that  any  body  did  hear — 
and  then  the  thought  of  Penelope's  gay  letter  suddenly 
choked  me. 

"  Don't  cry,  Dora — I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  gu'l  cry. 
I  am  very  sorry.  Heaven  help  me !  was  there  ever  such 
an  unfortimate  fellow  born  ?  but  it  is  all  circumstances ;  I 
have  been  the  sport  of  circumstances  during  my  whole  life. 
1^0,  you  need  not  contradict.  What  the  devil  do  you  tor- 
ment me  for  ?" 

I  have  thought  since,  how  great  must  have  been  the 
dormant  irritation  and  excitement  which  could  have  forced 
that  ugly  word  out  of  the  elegant  lips  of  Francis  Charteris. 
And,  the  smile  being  off  it,  I  saw  a  face  haggard  and  sallow 
with  anxiety. 

I  told  him,  as  gently  as  I  could,  that  the  only  thing  want- 
ed of  him  was  to  make  up  his  mind,  either  way.  If  he  saw 
good  reasons  for  declming — why,  decUne — Penelope  would 
be  content. 

"  Do  as  you  think  best — only  do  it — and  let  my  sister 
know.  There  are  two  things  which  you  men,  the  best  of 
you,  count  for  naught ;  but  which  are  the  two  things  which 
almost  break  a  woman's  heart — one  is,  when  you  keep  se- 
crets from  her ;  the  other  when  you  hesitate  and  hesitate, 
and  never  know  your  o^ti  minds.  Pray,  Francis — don't 
do  so  with  Penelope.     She  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"  I  know  that.  Poor  Penelope !"  He  dropped  his  head 
with  something  very  like  a  groan. 

Much  shocked,  to  see  that  what  ought  to  have  been  his 
comfort  seemed  to  be  his  worst  pain,  I  forgot  all  about  the 
letter  in  my  anxiety  lest  any  thing  should  be  seriously 
amiss  between  them ;  and  my  great  concern  roused  him. 

"Nonsense,  child.  Nothing  is  amiss.  Very  likely  I 
shall  be  Governor  of after  all,  and  your  sister  govern- 
or's lady,  if  she  chooses.  Hush !  not  a  word ;  Sir  Wilham 
is  calling.  Yes,  sir,  nearly  ready.  There,  Dora,  you  can 
swear  the  letter  is  begun."  And  he  hastily  wrote  the  date 
■ — Treherne  Court. 

Even  then,  though,  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  finished  it, 
save  for  the  merest  accident,  which  shows  what  trifles  ap- 
parently cause  important  results,  especially  with  characters 
so  impressible  and  A^ariable  as  Francis. 

Sir  William  opening  some  letters,  called  me  to  look  at 
one  with  a  name  written  on  the  corner. 

"Is  that  meant  for  my  nephew?    His  correspondent 


208  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFE. 

writes  an  atrocious  hand,  and  can  not  spell,  either.  '  Mr. 
F.  Chatters' — the  commonest  tradesman  might  have  had 
the  decency  to  put  '  Francis  Charteris,  Esquire.'  Perhaps 
it  is  not  for  him,  but  for  one  of  the  servants." 

It  was  not ;  for  Francis,  looking  rather  confused,  claimed 
it  as  from  his  tailor ;  and  then,  under  his  uncle's  keen  eyes, 
turned  scarlet.  These  two  must  have  had  some  sharp  en- 
counters in  former  days,  since,  even  now,  their  power  of 
provoking  one  another  is  grievous  to  see.  Heartily  vexed 
for  Francis,  I  took  up  the  ugly  letter  to  give  to  him,  but 
Sir  Wilham  interfered. 

"  N'o,  thank  you,  young  lady.  Tradesmen's  bills  can  al- 
ways wait.  Mr.  Francis  shall  have  his  letter  when  he  has 
written  his  own." 

Kude  as  his  behavior  was,  Francis  bore  with  it.  I  was 
called  out  of  the  library,  but  half  and  hour  afterward  I 
learned  that  the  letter  was  written — a  letter  of  acceptance. 

So  I  conclude  his  hesitation  was  all  talk — or  else  his  bet- 
ter self  sees  that  a  good  and  loving  wife,  in  any  nook  of  the 
world,  outweighs  a  host  of  grand  London  acquaintance, 
miscalled  "  friends." 

Dear  old  Mrs.  Granton  beamed  with  delight  at  the  idea 
of  another  marriage  at  Rockmount. 

"  Only,"  said  she,  "  what  will  become  of  your  poor  papa, 
when  he  has  lost  all  his  daughters  ?" 

I  reminded  her  that  Francis  did  not  intend  marrying 
more  than  one  of  us,  and  the  other  was  hkely  to  be  a  fix- 
ture for  many  years. 

"  ISTot  so  sure  of  that,  my  dear ;  but  it  is  very  jjretty  of 
you  to  say  so.  We'll  see;  something  will  be  thought  of 
for  your  good  papa  when  the  time  comes." 

What  could  she  mean !  But  I  was  afterward  convinced 
that  only  my  imagination  suspected  her  of  meaning  any 
thing  beyond  her  usual  old-ladyish  eagerness^in  getting 
young  people  "  settled." 

Sunday  was  another  long  day — they  seem  so  long  and 
still,  spite  of  all  the  gayety  Avith  which  these  country  cous- 
ins fill  Treheme  Court,  which  is  often  so  oppressive  to  me, 
and  affects  me  with  such  a  strange  sensation  of  nervcuis  ir- 
ritation, that  when  Colin  and  his  mother,  who  take  a  special 
charge  of  me,  have  hunted  me  out  of  stray  corners,  their 
affectionate  kindness  has  made  me  feel  like  to  cry. 

Now,  I  did  not  mean  to  write  about  myself — I  have  been 
trying  desperately  to  fill  my  mind  with  other  people's  af- 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIPE.  209 

fairs — ^but  it  will  out.  I  am  not  myself— I  know.  All 
Sunday,  a  formal  and  dreary  day  at  Treherne  Court,  I  do 
think  a  dozen  gentle  words  would  have  made  me  cry  hke  a 
baby.  I  did  cry  once,  but  it  was  when  nobody  saw  me,  in 
the  firehght,  by  Mrs.  Granton's  arm-chair. 

"  What  is  ailing  with  you,  my  dear  ?"  she  had  been  say- 
ing. "  You  are  not  near  so  lively  as  yon  were  a  week  ago. 
Has  any  body  been  vexing  my  Dora  ?" 

Which,  of  course,  Dora  at  once  denied,  and  tried  to  be 
as  blithe  as  a  lark  all  the  evening. 

N'o,  not  vexed,  that  would  be  impossible — ^but  just  a  lit- 
tle hurt.  ^  KI  could  only  talk  about  some  things  that  puzzle^ 
me — talk  in  a  cursory  way,  or  mention  names  carelessly,  hke 
other  names,  or  ask  a  question  or  two  that  might  throw  a 
light  on  circumstances  not  clear,  then  they  would  be  easier 
to  bear.  But  I  dare  not  trust  my  tongue,  or  my  cheeks,  so 
all  goes  inward — I  keep  pondering  and  wondering  till  my 
brain  is  bewildered,  and  my  whole  heart  sore.  People 
should  not — can  not — ^that  is,  good  people  can  not — say 
things  they  do  not  mean ;  it  would  not  be  kind  or  gener- 
ous ;  it  would  not  be  7'ight  in  short ;  and  as  good  people 
nsually  act  rightly,  or  what  they  beheve  to  be  right,  that 
doubt  falls  to  the  ground. 

Has  there  risen  up  somebody  better  than  I  ?  with  fewer 
faults  and  nobler  virtues  ?  God  knows  I  have  small  need 
to  be  proud.  Yet  I  am  myself  this  Theodbra  Johnston — 
as  I  was  from  the  first,  no  better  and  no  worse — ^honest 
and  true  if  nothing  else,  and  he  knew  it.  Nobody  ever 
knew  me  so  thoroughly — faults  and  all. 

We  women  must  be  constituted  differently  from  men. 
A  word  said,  a  Ime  vmtten,  and  we  are  happy ;  omitted, 
our  hearts  ache — ache  as  if  for  a  great  misfortune.  Man 
can  not  feel  it,  or  guess  at  it — ^if  they  did,  the  most  care- 
less of  them  would  be  slow  to  wound  ns  so. 

There's  Penelope,  now,  waiting  alone  at  Rockmoimt. 
Augustus  wanted  to  go  post  haste  and  fetch  her  here,  but 
Francis  objected.  He  had  to  return  to  London  innnediate- 
ly,  he  said ;  and  yet  here  he  is  still.  How  can  men  make 
themselves  so  content  abroad,  while  the  women  are  wear- 
mg  their  hearts  out  at  home  ? 

I  am  bitter — naughty — I  know  I  am.  I  was  even  cross 
to  Colin  to-day,  when  he  wanted  me  to  take  a  walk  with 
him,  and  then  persisted  in  staying  beside  me  indoors. 
Colin  likes  me — Cohn  is  kmd  to  me — Colin  would  walk 


210  A   LIFE   YOU   A   LIFE. 

twenty  miles  for  an  hour  of  his  old  playmate's  company — 
he  told  me  so.     And  yet  I  was  cross  with  him. 

Oh,  I  am  wicked,  wicked!  But  my  heart  is  so  sore. 
One  look  into  eyes  I  knew — one  clasp  of  a  steadfast,  kindly 
hand,  and  I  would  be  all  right  again.  Merry,  happy,  brave, 
afraid  of  nothing  and  nobody,  not  even  of  myself;  it  can 
not  be  so  bad  a  self  if  it  is  worth  being  cared  for.  I  can't 
see  to  write.  There  now,  there  now — as  one  would  say  to 
a  child  in  a  passion — cry  your  heart  out ;  it  will  do  you 
good,  Theodora. 

After  that,  I  should  have  courage  to  tell  the  last  thing 
which  this  evening  put  a  climax  to  my  ill-hmnors,  and  in 
some  sense  cleared  them  off,  thunder-storm  fashion.  An 
incident  so  unexpected,  a  story  so  ridiculous,  so  cowardly, 
that,  had  Francis  been  less  to  me  than  my  expected  brother- 
in-law,  I  declare  I  would  have  cut  his  acquaintance  forever 
and  ever,  and  never  spoken  to  him  again. 

I  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  billiard-room,  which, 
when  the  players  are  busy,  is  as  quiet,  unobserved  a  nook 
as  any  in  the  house.  I  had  a  book,  but  read  little,  being 
stopped  by  the  eternal  click-clack  of  the  billiard-balls.  There 
were  only  three  in  the  room — Francis,  Augustus,  and  Colin 
Granton,  who  came  up  and  asked  my  leave  to  play  just  one 
game.  My  leave  ?  How  amusing !  I  told  him  he  might 
play  on  till  midsummer,  for  all  I  cared. 

They  were  soon  absorbed  in  their  game,  and  their  talk 
between  whiles  went  in  and  out  of  my  head  as  vaguely  as 
the  book  itself  had  done,  till  something  caught  my  atten- 
tion. 

"  I  say,  Charteris,  you  know  Tom  Turton  ?  He  was  the 
cleverest  fellow  at  a  cannon.  It  was  refreshing  only  to 
watch  him  hold  the  cue  so  long  as  his  hand  was  steady, 
and  even  after  he  got  a  little  '  screwed.'  He  was  a  wild 
one,  rather.     What  has  become  of  him  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say.  Doctor  Urquhart  might,  in  whose  com- 
pany I  last  met  him." 

Augustus  stared. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  good  joke.  Doctor  Urquhart  with  Tom 
Turton !  I  was  nothing  to  boast  of  myself  before  I  mar- 
ried ;  but  Tom  Turton !" 

"  They  seemed  intimate  enough ;  dined,  and  went  to  the 
theatre  together,  and  finished  the  evening— I  really  forget 
where.  Your  friend  the  doctor  made  himself  uncommonly 
agreeable." 


A   LIPE  FOR   A   LIFE.  211 

"  Urquhart  and  Tom  Tiirton,"  Augustus  kept  repeating, 
quite  unable  to  get  over  his  siu'prise  at  such  a  juxtaposi- 
tion, from  which  I  conckide  that  Mr.  Turton,  whose  name 
I  never  heard  before,  was  one  of  the  not  too  creditable  asr 
sociates  of  my  brother-in-law  in  his  bachelor  days.  When, 
some  one  calling,  he  went  out,  Colin  took  up  the  theme,  be- 
ing also  famihar  with  this  notorious  person,  it  appeared. 

"Very  odd.  Doctor  Urquhart's  hunting  in  couples  with 
Tom  Turton.  However,  I  hope  he  may  do  him  good — 
there  was  room  for  it." 

"In  Tom,  of  course,  your  doctor  being  one  of  those 
China  patterns  of  hiunanity,  in  which  it  is  vain  to  find  a 
flaw,  and  whose  mission  it  is  to  go  about  as  patent  cement- 
ers  of  all  cracked  and  unworthy  vessels." 

"  Eh  ?"  said  Cohn,  opening  his  good,  stupid  eyes. 

"  Query — whether  your  humdrum  Scotch  doctor  is  one 
whit  better  than  his  neighbors  ?  (Score  that  as  twenty, 
Granton.)  I  once  heard  he  had  a  wife  and  six  children 
living  in  the  shade,  near  some  cathedi'al  town,  Canterbury 
or  Salisbmy." 

"  What !"  and  Coiin's  eyes  almost  started  out  of  his  head 
with  astonishment. 

I  laugh  now — I  could  have  laughed  then,  the  minute 
after,  to  recollect  what  a  "  stound"  it  gave  us  both,  Colin 
and  me,  this  utterly  improbable  and  ridiculous  tale,  which 
Francis  so  coolly  promulgated. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Colin,  doggedly — bless  his 
honest  heart!  "Beg  your  pardon,  Charteris,  but  there 
must  be  some  mistake.     I  don't  believe  it." 

"  As  you  will — it  is  a  matter  of  very  httle  consequence. 
Your  game  now." 

"  I  won't  beheve  it,"  persisted  Colin,  who,  once  getting 
a  thing  into  his  head,  keeps  it  there.  "  Doctor  Urquhart 
isn't  the  sort  of  man  to  do  it.  If  he  had  married  ever  so 
low  a  woman,  he  would  have  made  the  best  of  her.  He'd 
never  take  a  wife  and  keep  her  in  the  back-groimd.  Six 
young  ones  too — and  he  so  fond  of  children." 

Francis  laughed. 

And  all  this  while  I  sat  quiet  in  my  chair. 

"  Children  are  sometimes  inconvenient — even  to  a  gentle- 
man of  your  friend's  parental  propensities.  Perhaps — we 
know  such  things  do  occur,  and  can't  be  helped  sometimes 
— perhaps  the  tale  is  all  true,  except  that  he  omitted  the 
marriage  ceremony." 


212  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

"  Charteris,  tliat  girl's  sitting  there." 

It  was  this  hurried  whisper  of  Colin's,  and  a  certain  tone 
of  Francis's,  which  made  me  guess  at  the  meaning  which, 
■when  I  clearly  caught  it — for  I  am  not  a  child  exactly,  and 
Lydia  Cartwright's  story  has  lately  made  me  sorrowfully 
wise — sent  me  burning  hot  all  over,  and  then  so  cold. 

"That  girl."  Yes,  she  was  but  a  girl.  Perhaps  she 
ought  to  have  crept  blushing  away,  or  pretended  not  to 
have  heard  a  syllable  of  these  men's  talk.  But,  girl  as  she 
was,  she  scorned  to  be  such  a  hypocrite — such  a  coward. 
What !  sit  still  to  hear  a  friend  sneered  at  and  his  character 
impeached  ?  While  one — the  only  one  at  hand  to  do  it — 
durst  not  so  much  as  say,  "The  tale  is  false — ^prove  it." 
And  why?  Because  she  happened" to  be  a  woman!  Out 
upon  it!  I  should  despise  the  womanhood  that  skulked 
behind  such  rags  of  miscalled  modesty  as  these. 

"  Mr.  Granton,"  I  said,  as  steadily  and  coolly  as  I  could, 
"your  caution  comes  too  late.  If  you  gentlemen  wished 
to  talk  about  any  thing  I  -should  not  hear,  you  ought  to 
have  gone  into  another  room.  I  have  heard  every  word 
you  uttered." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  it,"  said  Colin,  bluntly. 

Francis  proposed  carelessly  "to  drop  the  subject." 
What!  take  away  a  man's  good  name  behind  his  back, 
and  then  merely  "  drop  the  subject  ?"  Suppose  the  Hstener 
had  been  other  than  I,  and  had  believed;  or  Colin  had 
been  a  less  honest  fellow  than  he  is,  and  he  had  believed, 
and  we  had  both  gone  and  promulgated  the  story,  with  a 
few  elegant  improvements  of  our  own,  where  would  it  have 
ended  ?  These  are  the  things  that  destroy  character — foul 
tales,  that  grow  up  in  darkness,  and,  before  a  man  can  seize 
hold  of  them,  root  them  uj?,  and  drag  them  to  light,  homes 
are  poisoned,  reputation  gone. 

Such  thoughts  came  in  a  crowd  upon  me.  I  hardly 
knew  till  then  how  much  I  cared  for  him — I  mean  his 
honor,  his  stainless  name,  all  that  helps  to  make  his  life 
valuable  and  noble.  And  he  absent,  too,  unable  to  defend 
himself.  I  was  right  to  do  as  I  did ;  I  take  shame  to  my- 
self even  for  this  long  preamble,  lest  it  might  look  like  an 
apology. 

"  Francis,"  I  said,  holding  fast  by  the  billiard-table,  and 
trying  to  smother  down  the  heat  of  my  face,  and  the  beat 
at  my  heart,  which  nearly  choked  me,  "  if  you  please,  you 
have  no  right  to  say  such  things,  and  then  drop  the  sub- 


A   LIFE   FOE    A  LIFE.  213 

ject.  You  are  quite  mistaken;  Doctor  Urquhart  was  nev- 
er married  ;  lie  told  j^apa  so.  Who  told  you  that  he  had  a 
wife  and  six  children  hving  at  Sahsbury  ?" 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  do  not  vouch  for  any  such  fact ;  I  mere- 
ly *  tell  the  tale,  as  it  was  told  to  me.'  " 

"  By  whom  ?  Remember  the  name,  if  you  can.  Any 
one  who  repea^d  it,  ought  to  be  able  to  give  full  confirma- 
tion." 

"  Faith,  I  almost  forget  what  the  story  was." 

"You  said,  he  had  a  wife  and  six  children,  h^dng  near 
Salisbury.  Or,"  and  I  looked  Francis  direct  in  the  face, 
"  a  woman  who  was  not  his  wife,  but  who  ought  to  have 
been." 

He  must  have  been  ashamed  of  himself,  I  thmk ;  for  he 
turned  away  and  began  striking  irritably  at  the  balls. 

"  I  must  say,  Dora,  these  are  extraordinary  questions  to 
put.  Young  ladies  ought  to  know  nothing  about  such 
things  ;  what  possible  concern  is  this  of  yours  ?" 

I  did  not  shrink;  or  I  am  sure  he  could  not  have  seen 
me  do  so.  "It  is  my  concern,  as  much  as  it  is  Colin's 
there  ;  or  that  of  any  honest  stander-by.  Francis,  I  think 
that  to  take  away  a  man's  character  behind  his  back,  as 
you  have  been  doing,  is  as  bad  as  murdering  him." 

"  She's  right,"  cried  Colin ;  "  upon  my  soul,  she  is !  Dora 
— Miss  Dora,  if  Charteris  will  only  give  me  the  scoundrel's 
name  that  told  him  this,  I'll  hunt  him  down  and  unearth 
him,  wherever  he  is.  Come,  my  dear  fellow,  try  and  re- 
member.    Who  was  he  ?" 

"  I  think,"  observed  Francis,  after  a  pause,  "  his  name 
was  Augustus  Treherne." 

Colin  started — but  I  only  said,  "  Yery  well,  I  shall  go 
and  ask  him." 

And  just  then  it  chanced  that  papa  and  Augustus  were 
seen  passing  the  window.  I  was  well-nigh  doing  great 
mischief  by  forgetting,  for  the  moment,  how  that  the  name 
of  the  place  was  Sahsbury.  It  would  never  have  done  to 
hurt  papa  even  by  the  mention  of  Salisbury,  so  I  let  him 
go  by.  I  then  called  in  my  brother-in-law,  and  at  once, 
without  an  instant's  delay,  put  the  question. 

He  utterly  and  instantly  denied  having  said  any  such 
thing.  But  afterward,  just  in  time  to  prevent  a  serious 
fracas  between  him  and  Francis,  he  suddenly  burst  out 
laughing  violently. 

"  I  have  it,  and  if  it  isn't  one  of  the  best  jokes  going ! 


214  A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE. 

Once,  when  I  was  chaffing  Urquhart  about  marrying,  I  told 
hull  he  '  looked  as  savage  as  if  he  had  a  wife  and  six  chil- 
dren hidden  somewhere  on  Salisbury  Plain.'  And  I  dare 
say,  afterward,  I  told  some  fellow  at  the  camp,  who  told 
somebody  else,  and  so  it  got  round." 

"Andthat  was  all?" 

"  Ui^on  my  word  of  honor,  Dora,  that  was  all." 

Mr.  Charteris  said  he  was  exceedingly  happy  to  hear  it. 
They  all  seemed  to  consider  it  a  capital  joke,  and  in  the 
midst  of  their  mirth  I  slipped  out. 

But  the  thing  ended,  my  courage  gave  way;  Oh  the 
wickedness  of  this  world  and  of  the  men  in  it !  Oh!  if  there 
were  any  human  being  to  speak  to,  to  trust,  to  lean  upon ! 
I  laid  my  head  in  my  hands  and  cried ;  oh,  if  he  could  know 
how  bitterly  I  have  cried. 

New  Year's  night. 

Feeling  wakeful,  I  will  just  put  down  the  remaining  oc- 
currences of  this  New  Year's  Day. 

"When  I  was  writing  the  last  line,  Lisa  knocked  at  the 
door. 

"  Dora,  Doctor  Urquhart  is  in  the  library ;  make  haste, 
if  you  care  to  see  him ;  he  says  he  can  only  stop  half  an 
hour." 

So,  after  a  minute,  I  shut  and  locked  my  desk.  Only 
half  an  hour ! 

I  have  the  credit  of  "  flying  into  a  passion,"  as  Francis 
says,  about  things  that  vex  and  annoy  me.  Things  that 
wound,  that  stab  to  the  heart,  affect  me  quite  differently. 
Then  I  merely  say  "  yes,"  or  "  no,"  or  "  of  course,"  and  go 
about  quietly,  as  if  nothing  were  amiss.  Probably,  did 
there  come  any  mortal  blow,  I  should  be  like  one  of  those 
poor  soldiers  one  hears  of,  who,  being  shot,  will  stand  up 
as  if  unhurt,  or  even  fight  on  for  a  minute  or  so,  then  sud- 
denly drop  down — dead. 

I  fastened  my  neck-ribbon,  smoothed  my  hair,  and  de- 
scended. I  know  I  should  have  entered  the  library  all 
proper,  and  put  out  my  hand.  Ah!  he  should  not — he 
ought  not,  that  night — this  very  same  right  hand. 

I  mean  to  say,  I  should  have  met  Doctor  Urquhart  exactly 
as  usual,  had  I  not,  just  in  the  corridor,  entering  from  the 
garden,  come  upon  him  and  Colin  Granton  in  close  talk. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  and  "  It  is  a  very  cold  morning." 
Then  they  passed  on.     I  have  since  thought  that  their  haste 


A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE.  215 

was  Colin's  doing.  He  looked  confused,  as  if  it  were  a  con- 
fidential conversation  I  had  interrupted,  which  very  prob- 
ably it  was.  I  hope,  not  the  incident  of  the  morning,  for 
that  would  vex  Doctor  Urquhart  so :  and  blunt  as  Colm  is, 
his  kind  heart  teaches  him  tact,  oftentimes. 

Doctor  Urquhart  staid  out  his  half  hour  punctually,  and 
over  the  luncheon-table  there  was  plenty  of  general  conver- 
sation. He  also  took  an  opportunity  to  put  to  me,  in  my 
character  of  nurse,  various  questions  about  papa's  health, 
and  desired  me,  still  in  the  same  general  half-medical  tone, 
to  be  careful  of  my  own,  as  Treherne  Court  was  a  much 
colder  place  than  Kockmount,  and  we  were  likely  to  have 
a  severe  winter.  I  said  it  would  not  much  signify,  as  we 
did  not  purpose  remaining  more  than  a  week  longer ;  to 
which  he  merely  answered,  "  Oh,  indeed !" 

We  had  no  more  conversation,  except  that,  on  taking 
leave,  having  resisted  all  the  Trehernes'  entreaties  to  re- 
main, he  wished  me  "  a  hapjDy  IN'ew  Year." 

"  I  may  not  see  you  again  for  some  time  to  come ;  if  not, 
good-by;  good-by!" 

Twice  over,  good-by ;  and  that  was  all. 

A  happy  New  Year.  So  now  the  Christmas  time  is  over 
and  gone,  and  to-morrow,  January  2d,  1857,  wiU  be  like  all 
other  days  in  all  other  years.  If  I  ever  thought  or  expect- 
ed otherwise,  I  was  mistaken. 

One  thing  made  me  feel  deeply  and  solemnly  glad  of  Doc- 
tor Urquhart's  visit  to-day.  It  was,  that  if  ever  Francis, 
or  any  one  else,  was  inclined  to  give  a  moment's  credence 
to  that  atrocious  he,  his  whole  appearance  and  demeanor 
were  its  instantaneous  contradiction.  Whether  Colin  had 
told  any  thing  I  could  not  discover ;  he  looked  grave,  and 
somewhat  anxious,  but  his  manner  was  composed  and  at 
ease — the  air  of  a  man  whose  life,  if  not  above  sorrow,  was 
wholly  above  suspicion;  whose  heart  was  steadfast,  and 
whose  conscience  free. 

"A  thoroughly  good  man,  if  ever  there  was  one,"  said 
papa,  emphatically,  when  he  had  gone  away. 

"  Yes,"  Augustus  answered,  looking  at  Francis  and  then 
at  me.     "  As  honest  and  upright  a  man  as  God  ever  made." 

Therefore,  no  matter — even  though  I  was  mistaken. 


216  A  LITE   FOE   A  LIFE, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HIS    STORY. 

I  CONTINUE  these  letters,  having  hitherto  been  made 
aware  of  no  reason  why  they  should  cease.  If  that  reason 
comes,  they  shall  cease  at  once  and  forever ;  and  these  now 
existing  be  burnt  unmediately,  by  my  own  hand,  as  I  did 
those  of  my  sick  friend  in  the  Crimea.  Be  satisfied  of 
that. 

You  will  learn  to-morrow  morning  what,  had  an  oppor- 
tunity offered,  I  meant  to  have  told  you  on  ISTew  Year's 
Day — ^my  appointment  as  surgeon  to  the  jail,  where  I  shall 
shortly  enter  upon  my  duties.  The  other  portion  of  them, 
my  private  practice  in  the  neighborhood,  I  mean  to  com- 
mence as  soon  as  ever  I  can  afterward. 

Thus,  you  see,  my  "  Ishmaelitish  wanderings"  as  you  once 
called  them,  are  ended.  I  have  a  fixed  position  in  one 
place.  I  begm  to  look  on  this  broad  river  with  an  eye  of 
interest,  and  am  teaching  myself  to  grow  familiar  with  its 
miles  of  docks,  forests  of  shipping,  and  its  two  busy,  ever- 
growing towns  along  either  shore,  even  as  one  becomes  ac- 
customed to  the  natural  features  of  the  place,  wherever  it 
be,  that  we  call  "  home." 

If  not  home,  this  is  at  least  my  probable  sphere  of  labor 
for  many  years  to  come  ;  I  shall  try  to  take  root  here,  and 
make  the  best  of  every  thing. 

The  information  that  will  reach  you  to-morrow  comes 
necessarily  through  Treherne.  He  will  get  it  at  the  break- 
fast-table, pass  it  on  to  his  wife,  who  will  make  her  lively 
comments  on  it,  and  then  it  will  be  almost  sure  to  go  on  to 
you.  You  will,  in  degree,  understand,  what  they  will  not, 
w^hy  I  should  give  up.  my  position  as  regimental  surgeon  to 
establish  myself  here.  For  all  else,  it  is  of  httle  moment 
what  my  friends  think,  as  I  am  settled  in  my  own  mind — 
strengthened  by  certain  good  words  of  yours ;  that  soft, 
still,  autumn  day,  with  the  haze  over  the  moorland,  and  the 
sun  setting  in  the  ripples  of  the  pool. 

You  will  have  discovered  by  this  time  a  fact  of  which, 
so  far  as  I  could  judge,  you  were  a  week  since  entirely  ig- 
norant— that  you  have  a  suitor  for  your  hand.     He  himself 


A   LIFE  FOE  A  LIFE.  217 

informed  me  of  his  intentions  with  regard  to  you — asking 
my  advice  and  good  wishes.    What  could  I  do  ? 

I  will  tell  you,  being  unwilling  that  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree a  nature  so  candid  and  true  as  yours  could  suppose 
me  guilty  of  double-dealing.  I  said  "  that  I  believed  you 
would  make  the  best  of  wives  to  any  man  you  loved,  and 
that  I  hoped  when  you  did  marry  it  would  be  under  those 
circumstances.  Whether  he  himself  were  that  man,  it  rest- 
ed with  your  suitor  alone  to  discover  and  decide."  He 
confessed  honestly  that  on  this  point  he  was  as  ignorant  as 
myself,  but  declared  that  he  should  "  do  his  best."  Which 
implies  that  while  I  have  been  occupied  in  this  jail  business 
he  has  had  daily,  hourly  access  to  your  sweet  company, 
with  every  opportunity  in  his  favor — money,  youth,  consent 
of  friends — he  said  you  have  been  his  mother's  choice  for 
years — with,  best  of  all,  an  honest  heart,  which  vows  that, 
except  a  passing  "  smite"  or  two,  it  has  been  yours  since 
you  were  children  together.  That  such  an  honest  heart 
should  not  have  its  fair  chance  with  you,  God  forbid. 

Though  I  will  tell  you  the  truth ;  I  clid  not  believe  he 
had  any  chance.  JSTothing  in  you  has  ever  given  me  the 
slightest  indication  of  it.  Your  sudden  blush  when  you 
met  him  surj)rised  me ;  also  your  exclamation — I  was  not 
aware  you  were  in  the  habit  of  calling  him  by  his  Christian 
name.     But  that  you  love  this  young  man,  I  do  not  beheve. 

Some  women  can  be  persuaded  into  love,  but  you  are 
not  of  that  sort,  so  far  as  I  can  judge.  Time  will  show. 
You  are  entirely  and  absolutely  free. 

Pardon  me — but,  after  the  first  surprise  of  this  commu- 
nication, I  rejoiced  that  you  were  thus  free.  Even  were  1 
other  than  I  am — young,  handsome,  with  a  large  income 
and  every  thing  favorable,  you  should  still,  at  this  crisis,  be 
left  exactly  as  you  are,  free  to  elect  your  own  fate,  as  every 
woman  ought  to  do.  I  may  be  proud,  but,  were  I  seeking 
a  wife,  the  only  love  that  ever  would  satisfy  me,  would  be 
that  which  was  given  spontaneously  and  unsought;  de- 
pendent on  nothing  I  gave,  but  on  what  I  was.  If  you 
choose  this  suitor,  my  faith  in  you  will  convince  me  that 
your  feeluig  was  such  for  hun,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  say, 
"  Be  happy,  and  God  bless  you." 

Thus  far,  I  trust,  I  have  written  with  the  steadiness  of 
one  who,  in  either  case,  has  no  right  to  be  even  surprised — 
who  has  nothing  whatever  to  claim,  and  who  accordingly 
claims  nothing. 

K 


218  A   LIFE   FOK   A    LIFE. 

Treherne  will  of  course  answer — and  I  shall  find  his  let- 
ter at  the  camp  when  I  return,  which  will  be  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  It  may  bring  me — as,  indeed,  I  have  expected 
day  by  day,  being  so  much  the  friend  of  both  parties — def- 
inite tilings. 

Let  me  stop  writing  here.  My  ghosts  of  old  have  been 
haunting  me  every  day  this  week;  is  it  because  my  good 
angel  is  vanishing — vanishing — ^far  away?  Let  me  recall 
your  words,  which  nothing  ever  can  obliterate  from  my 
memory — and  which,  in  any  case,  I  shall  bless  you  for  as 
long  as  I  Uve. 

'^  I  believe  that  every  sin,  however  great,  being  repented 
of,  and  forsaken,  is  by  God,  and  ought  to  be  by  men,  alto- 
gether forgiven,  blotted  out  and  done  awayP 

A  truth  which  I  hope  never  to  forget,  but  to  set  forth 
continually — ^I  shall  have  plenty  of  opportunity,  as  a  jail-sur- 
geon. Ay,  I  shall  probably  live  and  die  as  a  poor  jail-sur- 
geon. 

And  you  ? 

"The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father." 

This  Hue  of  Ella's  has  been  running  in  my  head  all  day 
— a  very  quiet,  patient,  pathetically  sentimental  fine.  But 
Charles  Lamb  was  only  a  gentle  dreamer — or  he  wrote  it 
when  he  was  old. 

Understand,  I  do  not  beheve  you  love  this  young  man. 
If  you  do — ^marry  him !  But  if,  not  loving  him,  you  marry 
him — ^I  had  rather  you  died.  Oh,  child,  child,  with  your 
eyes  so  like  my  mother  and  Dallas — I  had  rather,  ten  thou- 
sand times,  that  you  died. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

HEE   STOET. 

Penelope  has  brought  me  my  desk  to  pass  away  the 
long  day  during  her  absence  in  London — whither  she  has 
gone  up  with  Mrs.  Granton  to  buy  the  first  installment  of 
her  wedding-clothes.  She  looked  very  sorry  that  I  could 
not  accompany  her.  She  is  exceedingly  kind — ^more  so  than 
ever  in  her  life  before,  though  I  have  given  her  a  deal  of 
trouble,  and  seem  to  be  giving  more  every  day. 

I  have  had  "  fever-and-agur,"  as  the  poor  folk  hereabouts 
call  it — caught,  probably,  in  those  long  walks  over  the  moor- 


A  LIPE   FOR   A   LIFE.  219 

lands,  wMcli  I  indulged  in  after  our  return  from  tlie  north 
— supposing  they  would  do  me  good.  But  the  illness  has 
done  me  more ;  so  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 

I  could  be  quite  happy  now,  I  beheve,  were  those  about 
me  happy  too ;  and,  above  aU,  were  Penelope  less  anxious 
on  my  account,  so  as  to  have  no  cloud  on  her  own  pros- 
pects. She  is  to  be  married  in  April,  and  they  will  sail 
in  May ;  I  must  contrive  to  get  well  long  before  then,  if 
possible.  Francis  has  been  very  little  down  here ;  bemg 
fully  occupied  in  official  arrangements ;  but  Penelope  only 
laughs,  and  says  he  is  better  out  of  the  way  during  this 
busy  time.  She  is  so  happy,  she  can  afford  to  jest.  Mrs. 
Granton  takes  my  place  in  assisting  her,  which  is  good  for 
the  dear  old  lady  too. 

Poor  Mrs.  Granton !  it  cut  me  to  the  heart  at  first  to  see 
how  puzzled  she  was  at  the  strange  freak  which  took  Colin 
off  to  the  Mediterranean — only  puzzled,  never  cross — how 
could  she  be  cross  at  any  thing  "  my  Colin"  does  ?  he  is  al- 
ways right,  of  course.  He  was  really  right  this  time,  though 
it  made  her  unhappy  for  a  while ;  but  she  would  have  been 
more  so,  had  she  known  all.  K'ow,  she  only  wonders  a  lit- 
tle ;  looks  at  me  with  a  sort  of  half-pitying  cmiosity ;  is 
specially  kind  to  me ;  brings  me  every  letter  of  her  son's 
to  read — thank  heaven,  they  are  aheady  very  cheerful  let- 
ters— and  treats  me  altogether  as  if  she  thought  I  were 
breaking  my  heart  for  her  Colin,  and  that  Colin  had  not  yet 
discovered  Avhat  was  good  for  himself  concernmg  me,  but 
would  in  time.  It  is  of  little  consequence — so  as  she  is  con- 
tent and  discovers  nothing. 

Poor  Cohn !  I  can  only  reward  him  by  loving  his  old 
mother  for  his  sake. 

After  a  long  pause,  writing  being  somewhat  fatiguing,  I 
have  thought  it  best  to  take  this  opportunity  of  settmg 
down  a  circumstance  which  befell  me  smce  I  last  wrote  in 
my  journal.  It  was  at  first  not  my  intention  to  mention  it 
here  at  all,  but  on  second  thoughts  I  do  so,  lest,  should  any 
thmg  happen  to  prevent  my  destroying  this  journal  during 
my  lifetime,  there  might  be  no  opportunity,  through  the 
omission  of  it,  for  any  misconstructions  as  to  Colm's  conduct 
or  mine.  I  am  weak  enough  to  feel  that,  not  even  after  I 
was  dead,  would  I  like  it  to  be  supposed  I  had  given  any 
encouragement  to  Colin  Granton,  or  cared  for  him  in  any 
other  way  than  as  I  shall  always  care  for  hun,  and  as  he 
well  deserves. 


220  *  A    LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

It  is  a  most  painful  thing  to  confess,  and  one  for  which 
I  still  take  some  blame  to  myself,  for  not  having  seen  and 
j^revented  it,  but  the  day  before  we  left  Treherne  Court 
Colin  Granton  made  me  an  offer  of  marriage. 

When  I  state  that  this  was  unforeseen,  I  do  not  mean  up 
to  the  actual  moment  of  its  befalling  me.  They  say  wom- 
en instinctively  find  out  when  a  man  is  in  love  with  them, 
so  long  as  they  themselves  are  indifferent  to  him;  but  I 
did  not,  probably  because  my  mind  was  so  full  of  other 
things.  Until  the  last  week  of  our  visit,  such  a  possibility 
never  entered  my  mind.  I  mention  this  to  explain  my  not 
having  prevented — what  every  girl  ought  to  prevent  if  she 
can — the  final  declaration,  which  it  must  be  such  a  cruel 
mortification  to  any  man  to  make,  and  be  denied. 

This  was  how  it  happened.  After  the  new  year  came 
in,  our  gayeties  and  late  hours,  following  the  cares  of  papa's 
illness,  were  too  much  for  me,  or  else  this  fever  was  com- 
ing on.  I  felt — not  ill  exactly — but  not  myself,  and  Mrs. 
Granton  saw  it.  She  petted  me  like  a  mother,  and  Avas  al- 
ways telling  me  to  regard  her  as  such,  which  I  innocently 
promised ;  when  she  would  look  at  me  earnestly,  and  say, 
often  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  "  she  was  sure  I  would 
never  be  unkind  to  the  old  lady,"  and  that  "  she  should  get 
the  best  of  daughters." 

Yet  still  I  had  not  the  least  suspicion.  'No,  nor  when 
Colin  was  continually  about  me,  watching  me,  waiting  upon 
me,  sometimes  almost  irritating  me,  and  then  again  touch- 
ing me  inexpressibly  with  his  unfailing  kindness,  did  I  sus- 
pect any  thing  for  long.     At  last,  I  did. 

There  is  no  need  to  relate  what  trifles  first  opened  my 
eyes,  nor  the  wretchedness  of  the  two  intermediate  days 
between  my  dreading  and  being  sure  of  it. 

I  suppose  it  must  always  be  a  very  terrible  thing  to  any 
woman,  the  discovery  that  some  one  whom  she  likes  heart- 
ily, and  only  likes,  loves  her.  Of  course,  in  every  possible 
way  that  it  could  be  done,  without  wounding  him  or  be- 
traying him  to  other  people,  I  avoided  Colin ;  but  it  was 
dreadful  notwithstanding.  The  sight  of  his  honest,  happy 
face  was  sadder  to  me  than  the  saddest  face  in  the  world ; 
yet,  when  it  clouded  over,  my  heart  ached.  And  then  his 
mother,  with  her  caresses  and  praises,  made  me  feel  the 
most  conscience-stricken  wretch  that  ever  breathed. 

Thus  things  went  on.  I  shall  set  down  no  incidents, 
though  bitterly  I  remember  them  all.     At  last  it  came  to 


A  LIPE   FOK   A   LIFE.  221 

an  enclv  I  shall  relate  this,  that  there  may  be  no  doubt  left 
as  to  what  2:>assed  between  ns — Colin  and  me. 

We  were  standing  in  the  corridor,  his  mother  having 
just  quitted  us  to  settle  with  papa  about  to-morrow's  jour- 
ney, desiring  us  to  wait  for  her  till  she  returned.  Colin 
suggested  waiting  in  the  library,  but  I  preferred  the  corri- 
dor, where  continually  there  were  persons  coming  and  go- 
ing. I  thought,  if  I  never  gave  him  any  opportunity  of 
saying  any  thing,  he  might  understand  what  I  so  earnestly 
wished  to  save  him  from  being  plainly  told.  So  we  stood 
looking  out  of  the  hall  windows.  I  can  see  the  view  this 
minute,  the  large,  level  circle  of  snow,  with  the  sun-dial  in 
the  centre,  and  beyond,  the  great  avenue  gates,  with  the 
avenue  itself,  two  black  hues,  and  a  white  one  between, 
lessening  and  fading  away  in  the  mist  of  a  January  after- 
noon. 

"  How  soon  the  day  is  closing  in — our  last  day  here !" 

I  said  this  without  thinking.  The  next  minute  I  would 
have  given  any  thing  to  recall  it ;  for  Colin  answered  some- 
thing— I  hardly  remember  what — but  the  manner,  the  tone, 
there  was  no  mistaking.  I  suppose  the  saying  is  true ;  no 
woman  with  a  heart  in  her  bosom  can  mistake  for  long  to- 
gether when  a  man  really  loves  her.  I  felt  it  was  coming ; 
perhaps  better  let  it  come,  and  then  it  would  be  over,  and 
there  wojild  be  an  end  of  it. 

So  I  just  stood  still,  with  my  eyes  on  the  snow  and  my 
hands  locked  tight  together,  for  Colin  had  tried  to  take 
one  of  them.  He  was  trembling  much,  and  so  I  am  sure 
was  I.  He  said  only  half  a  dozen  words,  when  I  begged 
him  to  stop,  "  unless  he  wished  to  break  my  heart."  And, 
seeing  him  turn  pale  as  death  and  lean  against  the  wall,  I 
did  indeed  feel  as  if  my  heart  were  breakmg. 

For  a  moment  the  thought  came — ^let  me  confess  it — how 
cruel  things  were,  as  they  were ;  how  happy  had  they  been 
otherwise,  and  I  could  have  made  him  happy — this  good, 
honest  soul  that  loved  me,  his  dear  old  mother,  and  every 
one  belonging  to  us ;  also,  whether  anyhow  I  ought  not 
to  try.  Ko;  that  was  not  possible.  I  can  understand 
women's  renouncing  love,  or  dying  of  it,  or  learning  to  live 
without  it ;  but  marrying  without  it,  either  for  "  spite,"  or 
for  money,  necessity,  pity,  or  persuasion,  is  to  me  utterly 
incompi'ehensible.  ]!^ay,  the  self-devoted  heroines  of  the 
Emilia  Wyndliam  school  seem  creatuves  so  weak  that,  if 
not  compassionating,  one  would  simply  despise  them.     Out 


222  A   LIFE   FOK   A  LIFE. 

of  duty  or  gratitude  it  might  be  possible  to  work,  live,  or 
even  die  for  a  person,  but  never  to  marry  him. 

So,  when  Colin,  recovering,  tried  to  take  my  hand  again, 
I  shrunk  into  myself,  and  became  my  right  self  at  once ; 
for  which,  lest  tried  overmuch,  and  hking  him  as  I  do,  some 
chance  emotion  might  have  led  him  momentarily  astray,  I 
most  earnestly  thank  God. 

And  then  I  had  to  look  him  in  the  eyes  and  tell  him  the 
plain  truth. 

"  Colin,  I  do  not  love  you ;  I  never  shall  be  able  to  love 
you,  and  so  it  would  be  v/icked  even  to  think  of  this.  You 
must  give  it  all  up,  and  let  us  go  back  to  our  old  ways." 

"Bora?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  true.     You  must  believe  it." 

For  a  long  time  the  only  words  he  said  were : 

"'  I  knew  it — ^knew  I  was  not  half  good  enough  for  you." 

It  being  nearly  dark,  no  one  came  by  until  we  heard 
his  mother's  step,  and  her  cheerful  "  Where's  my  Cohn  ?" 
• — ^loud  enough,  as  if  she  meant — poor  dear ! — in  fond  pre- 
caution, to  give  us  notice  of  her  coming.  Instinctively  we 
hid  from  her  in  the  library.  She  looked  in  at  the  door,  but 
did  not,  or  would  not  see  us,  and  went  trottmg  away  down 
the  corridor.     Oh,  what  a  wretch  I  felt ! 

When  she  had  departed,  I  was  stealing  away,  but  Colin 
caught  my  dress. 

"One  word — just  one.  Did  you  never  care  for  me — 
never  the  least  bit  in  all  the  world  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  feeling  no  more  ashamed  of  telling 
this,  or  any  thing,  than  one  would  be  in  a  dying  confession. 
"  Yes,  Colin,  I  was  once  very  fond  of  you,  when  I  was 
about  eleven  years  old." 

"  And  never  afterward  ?" 

"  No — as  my  saying  this  proves.  ]N^ever  afterward,  and 
never  should  by  any  possible  chance — in  the  sort  of  way 
you  wish." 

"  That  is  enough — ^I  understand,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
sorrowful  dignity  quite  new  in  Colin  Granton.  "  I  was 
only  good  enough  for  you  when  you  were  a  child,  and  we 
are  not  children  now.  We  never  shall  be  children  any 
more." 

"  ]SI'o — no."  And  the  thought  of  that  old  time  came  upon 
me  like  a  flood — the  winter  games  at  the  Cedars — the 
blackberrying  and  bilberrying  upon  the  sunshiny  summer 
moors — the  grief  when  he  went  to  school,  and  the  joy  when 


A   LIFE   POE   A   LIFE.  223 

he  came  home  again — the  loA^e  that  was  so  innocent,  so 
painless.  And  he  had  loved  me  ever  since — me,  not  Lisa- 
bel ;.  though,  for  a  time  he  tried  flirting  with  her,  he  owned, 
just  to  find  out  whether  or  not  I  cared  for  him.  I  hid  my 
face  and  sobbed. 

And  then  I  had  need  to  recover  self-control ;  it  is  such 
an  awful  thing  to  see  a  man  weep. 

I  stood  by  Colin  till  we  were  both  calmer ;  trusting  all 
was  safe  over,  and  had  passed  without  the  one  question  I 
most  dreaded.     But  it  came. 

"  Dora,  why  do  you  not  care  for  me  ?  Is  there — ^tell  me 
or  not,  as  you  like — is  there  any  one  else  ?" 

Conscience !  let  me  be  as  just  to  myself  as  I  would  be  to 
another  in  my  place. 

Once,  I  wrote  that  I  had  been  "  mistaken,"  as  I  have 
been  in  some  things,  but  not  in  all.  Could  I  have  honestly 
said  so,  taking  all  blame  on  myself  and  freeing  all  others 
from  every  thiag  save  mere  kindness  to  a  poor  girl  who 
was  foolish  enough,  but  very  honest  and  true,  and  wholly 
ignorant  of  where  things  were  tending,  till  too  late — if  I 
could  have  done  this,  I  believe  I  should  then  and  there 
have  confessed  the  whole  truth  to  Colin  Granton.  But,  as 
things  are,  it  was  impossible. 

Therefore  I  said,  and  started  to  notice  how  literally  my 
words  imitated  other  words,  the  secondary  meaning  of 
which  had  struck  me  differently  from  their  first,  "  that  it 
was  not  hkely  I  should  ever  be  married." 

Colin  asked  no  more. 

The  dressing-bell  rang,  and  I  again  tried  to  get  away; 
but  he  whispered,  "  Stop  one  minute — my  mother — what 
am  I  to  tell  my  mother  ?" 

"  How  much  does  she  know  ?" 

"l^othing.  But  she  guesses,  poor  dear — and  I  was  al- 
ways going  to  tell  her  outright ;  but  somehow  I  couldn't. 
But  now,  as  you  will  tell  your  father  and  sisters,  and — " 

"  ]N'o,  Colin ;  I  shall  not  tell  any  human  being." 

And  I  was  thankful  that  if  I  could  not  return  his  love,  I 
could  at  least  save  his  pride,  and  his  mother's  tender  heart. 

"  Tell  her  nothing ;  go  home  and  be  brave  for  her  sake. 
Let  her  see  that  her  boy  is  not  unhappy.  Let  her  feel  that 
not  a  girl  in  the  land  is  more  precious  to  him  than  his  old 
mother." 

"  That's  true !"  he  said  with  a  hard  breath.  "  I  won't 
break  her  dear  old  heart.  I'll  hold  my  tongue  and  bear  it. 
I  will,  Dora." 


224  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

"  I  know  you  will,"  and  I  held  out  my  hand.  Surely, 
that  clasp  wronged  no  one ;  for  it  was  hardly  like  a  lover's 
— only  my  old  playmate — Colin,  my  dear. 

We  then  agreed  that,  if  his  mother  asked  any  questions,. 
he  should  simply  tell  her  that  he  had  changed  his  mind 
concerning  me ;  and  that  otherwise  the  matter  should  be 
buried  with  him  and  me,  now  and  always — "  except" — and 
he  seemed  about  to  tell  me  something,  but  stopped,  saying 
it  was  of  no  matter — it  was  all  as  one  now.  I  asked  no 
farther,  only  desiring  to  get  away. 

Then,  with  another  long,  sorrowful,  silent  clasp  of  the 
hand,  Colin  and  I  parted. 

A  long  parting  it  has  proved ;  for  he  kept  aloof  from  me 
at  dinner,  and  instead  of  traveling  home  with  us,  went 
round  another  way.  A  week  or  two  afterward  he  called 
at  Rockmount,  to  tell  us  he  had  bought  a  yacht,  and  was 
going  a  cruise  to  the  Mediterranean.  I,  being  out  on  the 
moor,  did  not  see  him;  he  left  next  day,  telling  his  mother 
to  "  wish  good-by  for  him  to  his  playmate  Dora." 

Poor  Colin !  God  bless  him  and  keep  him  safe,  so  that 
I  may  feel  I  only  wounded  his  heart,  but  did  his  soul  no 
harm.  I  meant  it  not !  And  when  he  comes  back  to  hi& 
old  mother,  perhaps  bringing  her  home  a  fair  elaughter-in- 
law,  as  no  doubt  he  will  one  day,  I  shall  be  happy  enough 
to  smile  at  all  the  misery  of  that  time  at  Treherne  Court 
and  afterward,  and  at  all  the  tender  compassion  which  has 
been  wasted  upon  me  by  good  Mrs.  Granton,  because  "  my 
Colin"  changed  his  mind,  and  went  away  without  marrying- 
his  playmate  Dora.  Only  "  Dora."  I  am  glad  he  never 
called  me  by  my  full  name.  There  is  but  one  person  who 
ever  called  me  "  Theodora." 

I  read  in  a  book  the  other  day  this  extract : 
^  "  People  do  not  sufficiently  remember  that  in  every  rela- 
tion of  life  as  in  the  closest  one  of  all,  they  ought  to  take 
one  another  '  for  better,  for  worse.'  That,  grantmg  the  tie 
of  friendship,  gratitude,  or  esteem  be  strong  enough  to 
have  existed  at  all,  it  ought,  either  actively  or  passively,  to 
exist  forever.  And  seeing  we  can,  at  best,  know  our 
neighbor,  companion  or  friend,  as  little  as,  alas !  we  often 
find  he  knoweth  of  us,  it  behooveth  us  to  treat  him  with 
the  most  patient  fidelity,  the  tenderest  forbearance ;  grant- 
ing to  all  his  words  and  actions  that  we  do  not  understand, 
the  utmost  limit  of  faith  which  common  sense  and  Chris- 
tian justice  will  allow.     Kay,  these  failing,  is  there  not  still 


A  LITE   FOE   A  LIFE.  225 

left  Christian  charity?  which,  being  past  'believing'  and 
'  hoping,'  still  '  endureth  all  things.'  " 
I  hear  the  carriage  wheels. 

^  %  H«  *  *  ♦  ♦ 

They  w^U  not  let  me  go  down  stairs  at  all*to-day. 

I  have  been  lying  looking  at  the  lire,  alone,  for  Francis 
returned  with  Mrs.  Granton  and  Penelope  yesterday.  They 
have  gone  a  long  walk  across  the  moors.  I  watched  them 
strolling  arm-in-arm — Darby  and  Joan  fashion — till  their 
two  small  black  figures  vanished  over  the  hilly  road,  which 
always  used  to  remind  me  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  and  her 
Prince  : 

"And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went, 
To  that  new  world  which  is  the  old." 

They  must  be  very  happy — Francis  and  Penelope. 

I  wonder  how  soon  I  shall  be  well.  This  fever  and  ague 
lasts  sometimes  for  months ;  I  remember  Doctor  Urquhart's 
once  saying  so. 

Here,  following  my  plan  of  keeping  this  journal  accurate 
and  complete,  I  ought  to  jout  down  something  which  oc- 
curred yesterday,  and  which  concerns  Doctor  IJrquhart. 

Driving  through  the  camp,  my  sister  Penelope  saw  him, 
and  papa  stopjoed  the  carriage  and  waited  for  him.  He 
could  not  pass  them  by,  as  Francis  declared  he  seemed  in- 
tending to  do,  with  a  mere  salutation,  but  staid  and  s^^oke. 
The  conversation  was  not  told  me,  for,  on  mentioning  it,  a 
few  sharp  words  took  place  between  papa  and  Penelope. 
She  protested  against  liis  taking  so  much  trouble  in  culti- 
vating the  society  of  a  man,  who,  she  said,  was  evidently, 
out  of  his  own  profession,  "  a  perfect  boor." 

Paj)a  replied  more  warmly  than  I  had  at  all  expected. 

"  You  will  oblige  me,  Penelope,  by  allowing  your  father 
to  have  a  will  of  his  own  in  this  as  in  most  other  matters, 
even  if  you  do  suppose  him  capable  of  choosing  for  his  as- 
sociate and  friend  '  a  perfect  boor.'  And  were  that  accusa- 
tion as  true  as  it  is  false,  I  trust  he  would  never  forget  that 
a  debt  of  gratitude,  such  as  he  owes  to  Doctor  Urquhart, 
once  incurred,  is  seldom  to  be  repaid,  and  never  to  be  ob- 
literated." 

So  the  discourse  ended.  Penelope  left  my  room,  and 
papa  took  a  chair  by  me.  I  tried  to  talk  to  him,  but  we 
soon  both  fell  into  silence.     Once  or  twice,  when  I  thouglit 

K2 


226  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

he  was  reading  the  newspaper,  I  found  him  looking  at  me, 
but  he  made  no  remark. 

Papa  and  I  have  had  much  less  of  each  other's  company 
lately,  though  we  have  never  lost  the  pleasant  footing  on 
which  we  lea'i'ned  to  be  during  his  illness.  I^wonder  if, 
now  that  he  is  quite  well,  he  has  any  recollection  of  the 
long,  long  hours,  nights  and  days,  with  only  daylight  or 
candlelight  to  mark  the  difference  between  them,  w^hen  he 
lay  motionless  in  his  bed,  watched  and  nursed  by  us  two. 

I  was  thinking  thus,  when  he  asked  a  question,  the  ab- 
rupt coincidence  of  which  with  my  silent  thoughts  startled 
me  out  of  any  answer  than  a  simple  "  'No,  papa." 

"  My  dear,  have  you  ever  had  any  letter  from  Doctor 
IJrquhart  ?" 

How  could  he  possibly  imagine  such  a  thing  ?  Could 
Mrs.  Granton,  or  Penelope,  who  is  quick-sighted  in  some 
things,  have  led  papa  to  think — to  suppose — something,  the 
bare  idea  of  which  turned  me  sick  with  fear.  Me,  they 
might  blame  as  they  liked ;  it  would  not  harm  me ;  but  a 
word,  a  suggestion  of  blame  to  any  other  person,  would 
drive  me  wild,  furious.     So  I  called  up  all  my  strength. 

"  You  know,  papa.  Doctor  Urquhart  could  have  nothing 
to  write  to  me  about.  Any  message  for  me  he  would  have 
put  in  a  letter  to  you." 

"  Certainly.  I  merely  mquired,  considering  him  so  much 
a  friend  of  the  family,  and  aware  that  you  had  seen  more 
of  him,  and  liked  him  better  than  your  sisters  did.  But 
if  he  had  written  to  you,  you  w^ould,  of  course,  have  told 
me?" 

"  Of  course,  papa." 

I  did  not  say  another  word  than  this. 

Papa  went  on,  smoothing  his  newspaper,  and  looking  di- 
rect at  the  fire : 

"  I  have  not  been  altogether  satisfied  with  Doctor  Ur- 
quhart of  late,  much  as  I  esteem  him.  He  does  not  appear 
sufiiciently  to  value  what — I  may  say  it  without  conceit — 
from  an  old  man  to  a  younger  one,  is  always  of  some  worth. 
Yesterday,  when  I  invited  him  here,  he  declined  again,  and 
a  little  too — too  decidedly." 

Seemg  an  answer  waited  for,  I  said,  "  Yes,  papa." 

"  I  am  sorry,  having  such  great  respect  for  him,  and  such 
pleasure  in  his  society."  Papa  paused.  "When  a  man 
desires  to  win  or  retain  his  footing  in  a  family,  he  usually 
takes  some  pains  to  secure  it.     If  he  does  not,  the  natural 


A   LIIB^E   FOR   A   LIFE.  227 

conclusion  is  tliat  lie  does  not  desire  it."  Another  pause. 
"  Whenever  Doctor  Urquhart  chooses  to  come  here,  he 
will  always  be  welcome — most  welcome ;  but  I  can  not 
ao"ain  invite  him  to  Rockmount." 

"  IsTo,  papa." 

This  was  all.  He  then  took  up  his  Thnes^  and  read  it 
through.  I  lay  quiet,  quiet  aU  the  evening — quiet  until  I 
went  to  bed.  To-day  I  find  in  the  same  old  book  before 
quoted : 

"  The  true  theory  of  friendship  is  this — Once  a  friend, 
always  a  friend.  But,  answerest  thou,  doth  not  every 
day's  practice  give  the  lie  to  that  doctrine  ?  Many,  if  not 
most  friendships,  be  Uke  a  glove,  that,  however  well  fitting 
at  first,  doth  by  constant  use  wax  loose  and  migainly,  if  it 
doth  not  quite  wear  out.  And  others,  not  put  off  and  on, 
but  close  to  a  man  as  his  own  skin  and  flesh,  are  yet  hable 
to  become  diseased ;  he  may  have  to  lose  them,  and  live  on 
without  them,  as  after  the  lopping  off  of  a  limb,  or  the 
blinding  of  an  eye.  And  likewise,  there  be  friendships 
which  a  man  groweth  out  of,  naturally  and  blamelessly, 
even  as  out  of  his  child-clothes ;  the  which,  though  no 
longer  suitable  for  his  needs,  he  keepeth  religiously,  unfor- 
gotten  and  midestroyed,  and  often  visiteth  with  a  kindly 
tenderness,  though  he  knoweth  they  can  cover  and  warm 
him  no  more.  All  these  instances  do  clearly  prove  that  a 
friend  is  not  always  a  friend."' 

" '  Yea,'  quoth  Fidelis, '  he  is.  Kot  in  himself,  may  be, 
but  unto  thee.  The  future  and  the  present  are  thine  and 
his ;  the  past  is  beyond  ye  both — an  unalienable  possession, 
a  bond  never  disannulled.  Ye  may  let  it  slip,  of  natural 
disuse;  throw  it  aside  as  worn-out  and  foul;  cut  it  off, 
cover  it  up,  and  bury  it ;  but  it  hath  been,  and,  therefore, 
in  one  sense  forever  must  be.  Transmutation  is  the  law  of 
all  mortal  things ;  but,  so  far  as  we  know,  there  is  not,  and 
will  not  be — until  the  great  day  of  the  second  death — in  the 
whole  universe  any  such  thing  as  annihilation.' 

"  And  so  take  heed.  Deceive  not  thyself,  saying  that 
-because  a  thing  is  not,  it  never  was.  Respect  thyself — 
thine  old  self  as  well  as  thy  new.  Be  faithful  to  thyself, 
and  to  all  that  ever  was  thine.  Thy  friend  is  always  thy 
friend.  Not  to  have  or  to  hold,  to  love  or  rejoice  in,  but 
to  remeinber. 

"  And  if  it  befall  thee,  as  befall eth  most,  that  in  course 
of  time  nothing  will  remain  for  thee,  except  to  remember, 


228  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

be  not  afraid !  Hold  fast  that  which  was  thine — it  is  thiu6 
forever.  Deny  it  not — despise  it  not ;  respect  its  secrets 
— ^be  silent  over  its  wrongs.  And,  so  kept,  it  shall  never 
lie  hke  a  dead  thing  in  thy  heart,  corrnpting  and  breeding 
corruption  there,  as  dead  things  do.  Bury  it,  and  go  thy 
way.  It  may  chance  that,  one  day,  long  hence,  thou  shalt 
come  suddenly  upon  the  grave  of  it — and  behold!  it  is 
dewy-green !" 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

HIS    STOEY. 


That  face — that  poor  little  white,  patient  face  I  How 
she  is  changed ! 

I  wish  to  write  down  how  it  was  I  chanced  to  see  you, 
though  chance  is  hardly  the  right  word.  I  looiild  have 
seen  you,  even  if  I  had  waited  all  day  and  all  night,  like  a 
thief,  outside  your  garden-wall.  If  I  could  have  seen  you 
without  your  seeuig  me  (as  actually  occurred)  all  the  bet- 
ter ;  but  in  any  case  I  would  have  seen  you.  So  far  as  re- 
lates to  you,  the  will  of  Heaven  only  is  strong  enough  to 
alter  this  resolute  "  I  will,"  of  mine. 

You  had  no  idea  I  was  so  near  you.  You  did  not  seem 
to  be  thinking  of  any  body  or  any  thing  in  particular,  but 
came  to  your  bedroom  window,  and  stood  there  a  minute, 
looking  wistfully  across  the  moorlands,  the  still,  absorbed, 
hopeless  look  of  a  person  who  has  had  some  heavy  loss,  or 
resigned  something  very  dear  to  the  heart— Dallas's  look, 
almost,  as  I  remember  it  when  he  quietly  told  me  that  in- 
stead of  preaching  his  first  sermon  he  must  go  away  at 
once  abroad,  or  give  up  hope  of  ever  living  to  preach  at  all. 
Child,  if  you  should  slip  away  and  leave  me  as  Dallas  did ! 

You  must  have  had  a  severe  illness,  and  yet,  if  so,  surely 
I  should  have  heard  of  it,  or  your  father  and  sister  should 
have  mentioned  it  when  I  met  them.  But  no  mere  bodily 
illness  could  account  for  that  expression — it  is  of  the  mind. 
You  have  been  suffering  mentally  also.  Can  it  be  out  of 
pity  for  that  young  man,  who,  I  hear,  has  left  England  ? 
Wherefore,  is  not  difficult  to  guess,  nor  did  I  ever  expect 
otherwise,  knowing  him  and  you.  Poor  fellow !  But  he 
was  honest,  and  rich,  and  your  friends  would  approve  him. 
Have  they  been  urging  you  on  his  behalf?     Have  you  had 


A  LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE.  229 

family  feuds  to  withstand  ?  Is  it  that  which  has  made  you 
waste  away,  and  turn  so  still  and  pale  ?  You  would  just 
,do  that ;  you  would  never  yield,  but  only  break  your  heart 
quietly,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  I  know  you.  Nobody 
knows  you  half  so  well.  Coward  that  I  was,  not  to  have 
taken  care  of  you!  I  might  have  done  it  easily,  as  the 
friend  of  the  family — the  doctor — a  grim  fellow  of  forty. 
There  was  no  fear  for  any  body  save  myself.  Yes,  I  have 
been  a  coward.  My  child — my  gentle,  tender,  childhke 
child — ^they  have  been  breaking  your  heart,  and  I  have 
stood  aloof  and  let  them  do  it. 

You  had  a  cough  in  autumn,  and  your  eyes  are  apt  to 
get  that  bright,  hmpid  look,  dilated  pupils,  with  a  dark 
shade  under  the  lower  eyehd,  which  is  supposed  to  indicate 
the  consumptive  tendency.  Myself,  I  ctiffer ;  believing  it 
in  you,  as  in  many  others,  merely  to  indicate  that  which  for 
want  of  a  clearer  term  we  call  the  nervous  temperament ; 
exquisitely  sensitive,  and  liable  to  slight  derangements,  yet 
healthy  and  strong  at  the  core.  I  see  no  trace  of  disease 
in  you,  no  reason  why,  even  fragile  as  you  are,  you  should 
not  live  to  be  an  old  woman.  That  is,  if  treated  as  you 
ought  to  be,  judiciously,  tenderly ;  wat?ched  over,  cared  for, 
given  a  peaceful,  cheerful  life  with  plenty  of  love  in  it. 
Plenty  of  anxieties  also,  may  be ;  no  one  could  shield  you 
from  these — ^but  the  love  would  counterbalance  all,  and  you 
would  feel  that — you  should  feel  it — I  could  make  you  feel  it. 

I  must  find  out  whether  you  have  been  ill,  and,  if  so, 
who  has  been  attending  you.  Doctor  Black,  probably. 
You  dishked  him,  had  almost  a  terror  of  him,  I  know.  Yet 
they  would  of  course  have  placed  you  in  his  hands,  my  lit- 
tle tender  thing,  my  dove,  my  flower.     It  makes  me  mad. 

Forgive !  Forgive  also  that  word  "  my,"  though  in  one 
sense  you  are  even  now  mine.  ISTo  one  understands  you 
as  I  do,  or  loves  you.  Not  selfishly  either.  Most  solemn- 
ly do  I  here  protest,  that  could  I  now  find  myself  your  fa- 
ther or  your  brother,  through  the  natural  tie  of  blood,  which 
forever  prevents  any  other,  I  would  rejoice  in  it,  rather  than 
part  with  you,  rather  than  that  you  should  slip  away  hke 
Dallas,  and  bless  my  eyes  no  more. 

You  see  now  what  you  are  to  me,  that  a  mere  apparition 
of  your  little  face  at  a  window  could  move  me  thus. 

I  must  go  to  work  now.  To-morrow  I  shall  have  found 
out  all  about  you. 


230  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

I  wish  yon  to  know  how  the  discovery  was  made ;  since, 
be  assured,  I  have  ever  guarded  against  the  remotest  possi- 
bihty  of  friends  or  strangers  finding  out  my  secret,  or  gos- 
siping neighbors  coupKng  my  name  with  yours. 

Therefore,  instead  of  going  to  Mrs.  Granton,  I  paid  a 
visit  to  Widow  Cartwright,  to  whom  I  had  news  to  give 
concerning  her  daughter.  And  here,  lest  at  any  time  evil 
or  careless  tongues  should  bring  you  a  garbled  statement, 
let  me  just  name  all  I  have  had  to  do  with  this  matter  of 
Lydia  Cartwright,  of  which  your  sister  once  spoke  as  my 
"  impertinent  interference." 

Widow  Cartwright,  in  her  trouble,  begged  me  to  try  and 
learn  something  about  her  child,  who  had  disajDpeared  from 
the  family  where,  by  Miss  Johnston's  recommendation,  she 
went  as  parlor-maid,  and  in  sj)ite  of  various  inquiries  set  on 
foot  by  Mr.  Charteris  and  others,  had,  to  your  sister's  great 
regret,  never  more  been  heard  of.  She*^was  believed  not 
to  be  deai^,  for  she  once  or  twice  sent  money  to  her  moth- 
er ;  and  lately  she  was  seen  in  a  jDiivate  box  at  the  theatre 
by  a  person  named  Turton,  Avho  recognized  her,  having  oft- 
en dined  at  the  house  where  she  was  servant.  This  in- 
formation was  what*I  had  to  give  to  her  mother. 

I  would  not  have  mentioned  such  a  story  to  you,  but 
that  long  ere  you  read  these  letters,  if  ever  you  do  read 
them,  you  will  have  learned  that  such  sad  and  terrible  facts 
do  exist,  and  that  even  the  purest  woman  dare  not  ignore 
them.  Also,  who  knows  but  in  the  infinite  chances  of 
life  you  may  have  opportunities  of  doing  in  other  cases 
what  I  would  fain  have  done,  and  one  day  entreated  your 
sister  to  do — ^to  use  every  effort  for  the  redemj)tion  of  this 
girl,  who,  from  all  I  hear,  must  have  been  unusually  pretty, 
affectionate,  and  simple-minded. 

Her  poor  old  mother  being  a  little  comforted,  I  learned 
tidings  of  you.  Three  weeks  of  fever  and  ague,  or  some- 
thing like  it,  nobody  quite  knew  what ;  they,  your  family, 
had  no  notion  till  lately  that  there  was  any  thing  ailing 
you. 

ISTo,  they  never  would.  They  would  let  you  go  on  in 
your  silent,  patient  way,  sick  or  well,  happy  or  sorry,  till 
you  suddenly  sunk,  and  then  they  would  turn  round  aston- 
ished :  "  Really,  why  did  she  not  say  she  was  ill  ?  Who 
would  have  sruessed  there  was  anv  thina:  the  matter  with 
her?" 

And  I — I,  who  knew  every  change  in  your  little  face — 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  231 

every  mood  iii  tliat  strange,  quaint,  variable  si^irit — I  have 
let  you  slip,  and  been  afraid  to  take  care  of  you.    Coward ! 

I  proceeded  at  once  to  Rockmount,  but  learned  from  the 
gardener  that  your  father  and  sister  were  out,  and  "  Miss 
Dora  was  ill  in  her  room."  So  I  waited,  hung  about  the 
road  for  an  hour  or  more,  till  at  last  it  struck  me  to  seek 
for  information  at  the  Cedars. 

Mrs.  Granton  was  glad  to  see  me.  She  told  me  all  about 
her  son's  departure — gentle  heart!  you  have  kept  his  se- 
cret— and,  asking  if  I  had  seen  you  lately,  poured  out  in  a 
stream  all  her  anxieties  concerning  you. 

So  something  must  be  done  for  you — something  sudden 
and  determined.  They  may  all  think  what  they  hke — act 
as  they  choose,  and  so  shah.  I. 

I  advised  Mrs.  Granton  to  fetch  you  at  once  to  the  Ce- 
dars, by  persuasion  if  she  could ;  if  not,  by  compulsion — 
bringing  you  there  as  if  for  a  drive,  and  keeping  you.  She 
has  a  will,  that  good  old  lady,  when  she  sees  fit  to  use  it, 
and  she  has  considerable  influence  with  your  father.  She 
said  she  thought  she  could  persuade  him  to  let  her  have 
you,  and  nurse  you. 

"  And  if  the  poor  child  herself  is  obstinate — she  has  been 
rather  variable  of  temper  lately — I  may  say  that  you  order- 
ed me  to  bring  her  here  ?  She  has  a  great  respect  for  your 
opinion.     I  may  teU  her  I  acted  by  your  desire  ?" 

I  considered  a  moment,  and  then  said  she  might. 

We  arranged  every  thing  as  seemed  best  for  your  re- 
moval— a  serious  undertaking  for  an  ii?N^alid.  You  an  in- 
valid, my  bright-eyed,  light-footed,  moorland  girl ! 

I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Granton  had  a  shadow  of  suspicion. 
She  thanked  me  continually  in  her  warm-hearted  fashion 
for  my  "great  kindness."  Kindness!  She  also  begged 
me  to  call  immediately,  as  her  friend,  lest  I  might  have  any 
professional  scruples  of  etiquette  about  interfering  with 
Doctor  Black. 

Scruples — I  cast  them  all  to  the  winds.  Come  whatJ-will, 
I  must  see  you — must  assure  myself  that  ther^  is  no  dan- 
ger— that  all  is  done  for  you  which  gives  you  a  fair  chance 
of  recovery. 

If  not — if  with  the  clear  vision  that  I  know  I  can  use  on 
occasion,  I  see  you  fading  from  me,  I  shall  snatch  at  you. 
I  will  have  you ;  be  it  only  for  a  day  or  an  hour,  I  will 
have  you,  I  say — on  my  heart,  in  my  arms.  My  love,  my 
darling,  my  wife  that  ought  to  have  been — you  could  not 


232  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

die  out  of  my  arms.     I  will  make  you  live — I  will  make 
you  love  me.     I  will  have  you  for  my  wife  yet.     I  will — 
God's  will  be  done ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

HER   STOEY. 

I  AM  at  home  again.  I  sit  by  my  bedroom  fire  in  a  new 
easy-chair.  Oh,  such  care  am  I  taken  of  now !  I  cast  my 
eyes  over  the  white  waves  of  moorland  : 

"Moor  and  pleasance  looking  equal  in  one  snow." 
Let  me  see,  how  does  that  verse  begin  ? 

"God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved,  God  be  with  thee. 

As  alone  thou  goest  forth 

With  thy  face  unto  the  north, 
Moor  and  pleasance  looking  equal  in  one  snow ; 

While  I  follow,  vainly  follow, 

With  the  farewell  and  the  hollow, 
But  can  not  reach  thee  so." 

Ah!  but  I  can — I  can.  Can  reach  any  where — to  the 
north  or  the  south — over  the  land  or  across  the  sea,  to  the 
world's  end.  Yea,  beyond  there  if  need  be — even  into  the 
other  unknown  world. 

Since  I  last  wrote  here,  in  this  room,  things  have  befallen 
me  sudden  and  strange.  And  yet  so  natural  do  they  seem 
that  I  almost  forget  I  was  ever  otherwise  than  I  am  now. 
I,  Theodora  Johns1f)n,  the  same,  yet  not  the  same.  I,  just 
as  I  was,  to  be  thought  worthy  of  being — what  I  am,  and 
what  I  hope  some  one  day  to  be — God  willing.  My  heart 
is  full ;  how  shall  I  write  about  these  things,  which  never 
could  be  spoken  about  ?  which  only  to  think  of  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  could  but  lay  my  head  down  in  a  wonder-strick- 
en silence,  that  all  should  thus  have  happened  unto  me,  this 
unworthy  me. 

It  is  not  hkely  I  shall  keep  this  journal  much  longer,  but, 
until  closing  it  finally,  it  shall  go  on  as  usual.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  pleasant  to  read  over  some  day  when  I  am  old — 
when  we  are  old. 

One  morning,  I  forget  how  long  after  the  last  date  here, 
Mrs.  Granton  surprised  me  and  every  body  by  insisting 
that  the  only  thing  for  me  was  change  of  air,  and  that  I 
should  go  back  at  once  with  her  to  be  nursed  at  the  Cedars. 
There  was  an  invalid-carriage  at  the  gate,  with  cushions, 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  233 

mats,  and  furs ;  there  was  papa  waiting  to  help  me  clown 
stairs,  and  Penelope  with  my  trunk  packed ;  in  short,  I 
was  taken  by  storm,  and  had  only  to  submit.  They  all  said 
it  was  the  surest  way  of  recovering,  and  must  be  tried. 

'Now  I  wished  to  get  well,  and  fast  too ;  it  was  neces- 
sary I  should  for  several  reasons. 

First,  there  was  Penelope's  marriage,  "with  the  after  re- 
sponsibihty  of  my  being  the  only  daughter  now  left  to 
keep  the  house  and  take  care  of  papa. 

Secondly,  Lisabel  wrote  that  before  autumn  she  should 
want  me  for  a  new  duty  and  new  tie,  which,  though  we 
never  spoke  of  it  to  one  another,  we  all  thought  of  with 
softened  hearts — even  papa,  whom,  Penelope  told  me,  she 
had  seen  brushing  the  dust  off  our  old  rocking-horse  in  an 
absent  sort  of  way,  and  stop  in  his  walk  to  watch  Thomas, 
the  gardener,  tossing  his  grandson.     Poor,  dear  papa ! 

I  had  a  third  reason.  Sometimes  I  feared,  by  words 
Penelope  dropped,  that  she  and  my  father  had  laid  their 
heads  together  concerning  me  and  my  weak  health,  and 
imagined  things  wliich  were  not  true,  ^o ;  I  repeat,  they 
were  not  true.  I  was  ill  of  fever  and  ague,  that  was  all ;  I 
should  have  recovered  in  time.  If  I  were  not  quite  happy, 
I  should  have  recovered  from  that  also  in  time.  I  should 
not  have  broken  my  heart.  No  one  ought  who  has  still 
another  good  heart  to  believe  in;  no  one  need  who  has 
neither  done  wrong  nor  been  wronged.  So  it  seemed 
necessary — or  I  fancied  it  so,  thinking  over  all  things  dur- 
ing the  long,  wakeful  nights — ^that,  not  for  my  own  sake 
alone,  I  should  rouse  myself,  and  try  to  get  well  as  soon  as 
possible. 

Therefore  I  made  no  objections  to  what,  on  some  ac- 
counts, was  to  me  an  excessively  painful  thing— a  visit  to 
the  Cedars. 

i  Pain  or  no  pain,  it  was  to  be,  and  it  was  done.  I  lay  in 
a  dream  of  exhaustion,  which  felt  like  peace,  in  the  little 
sitting-room,  which  looked  on  the  familiar  view — the  lawn, 
the  sun-dial,  the  boundary  of  evergreen  bushes,  and,  farther 
off,  the  long,  narrow  valley,  belted  by  fir-topped  hills  stand- 
ing out  sharp  against  the  western  sky. 

Mrs.  Granton  bustled  in  and  out,  and  did  every  thing  for 
me  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  been  my  mother. 

When  we  are  sick  and  weak,  to  find  comfort ;  when  we 
are  sore  at  heart,  to  be  surrounded  by  love ;  when,  at  five- 
and-twenty,  the  world  looks  blank  and  dreary,  to  see  it 


234  A  LIFE   EOK  A  LIFE. 

"looking  bright  and  sunshiny  at  sixty — this  does  oue  good. 
If  I  said  I  loved  Mrs.  Granton,  it  but  weakly  expressed 
what  I  owed  and  now  owe  her — more  than  she  is  ever 
hkely  to  know. 

I  had  been  a  day  and  a  night  at  the  Cedars  without  see- 
ing any  one  except  the  dear  old  lady,  who  watched  me 
incessantly,  and  administered  perpetual  doses  of  "  kitchen 
physic,"  promising  me  faithfully  that,  if  I  continued  im- 
proving, the  odious  face  of  Doctor  Black  should  never 
cross  the  threshold  of  the  Cedars. 

"But  for  all  that,  it  would  be  more  satisfactory  to  me  if 
you  would  consent  to  see  a  medical  friend  of  mine,  my 
dear." 

Sickness  sharpens  our  senses,  making  nothing  seem  sud- 
den or  unnatural.  I  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  told  me 
who  it  was  she  wanted  me  to  see — who  it  was  even  now 
at  the  parlor  door. 

Doctor  Urquhart  came  in,  and  sat  down  beside  my  sofa. 
I  do  not  remember  any  thmg  that  was  said  or  done  by  any 
of  us,  except  that  I  felt  him  sitting  there,  and  heard  him  in 
his  familiar  voice  talking  to  Mrs.  Granton  about  the  pleas- 
ant view  from  this  low  window,  and  the  sunshiny  morning, 
and  the  blackbird  that  was  solemnly  hopping  about  mider 
the  sun-dial. 

I  will  not  deny  it — why  should  I  ?  the  mere  tone  of  his 
voice,  the  mere  smile  of  his  eyes  filled  my  whole  soul  with 
peace.  I  neither  knew  how  he  had  come  nor  why;  I  did 
not  want  to  know ;  I  only  knew  he  was  there,  and  in  his 
presence  I  was  like  a  child  who  has  been  very  forlorn  and 
is  now  taken  care  of — very  hungry  and  is  satisfied. 

Some  one  calling  Mrs.  Granton  out  of  the  room,  he 
suddenly  turned  and  asked  me,  "how  long  I  had  been  ill." 

I  answered  briefly,  then  said,  in  reply  to  farther  ques- 
tions, that  I  believed  it  was  fever  and  ague,  caught  in  the 
moorland  -cottages,  but  that  I  was  fast  recovering ;  indeed, 
I  was  almost  well  again  now. 

"  Are  you  ?  Give  me  your  hand."  He  felt  my  pulse, 
counting  it  by  his  watch.  It  did  not  beat  much  like  a 
convalescent's  then,  I  know.  "  I  see  Mrs.  Granton  in  the 
garden ;  I  must  have  a  little  talk  with  her  about  you." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  abruptly,  and  soon  after  I  saw 
them  walking  together  up  and  down  the  terrace.  Dr.  Ur- 
quhart only  came  to  me  again  to  bid  me  good-by. 

But  after  that  we  saw  him  every  day  for  a  week. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  235 

He  used  to  aj^pear  at  uncertain  hours,  sometimes  fore- 
noon, sometimes  evening,  but  faithfully,  if  ever  so  late,  he 
came.  I  had  not  been  aware  he  was  thus  intimate  at  the 
Cedars,  and  one  day,  when  Mrs.  Granton  was  s^Deaking 
about  him,  I  happened  to  say  so. 

'She  smiled. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  his  coming  here  daily  is  a  new  thing, 
though  I  was  always  glad  to  see  him,  he  was  so  kind  to 
my  Colin.  But,  in  truth,  my  dear,  if  I  must  let  out  the 
secret,  he  now  comes  to  see  youP 

"  Me !"  I  was  glad  of  the  dim  light  we  sat  in,  and  hor- 
ribly ashamed  of  myself  when  the  old  lady  coiftinued,  mat- 
ter-of-fact and  grave. 

"  Yes,  you,  by  my  special  desire,  though  he  consented 
willingly  to  attend  you,  for  he  takes  a  most  kindly  interest 
m  you.  He  was  afraid  of  your  being  left  to  Doctor  Black, 
whom  in  his  heart  I  beheve  he  considers  an  old  humbug  ; 
so  he  planned  your  being  brought  here  to  be  petted  and 
taken  care  of.  And  I  am  sure  he  himself  has  taken  care 
of  you  in  every  possible  way  that  could  be  done  without 
your  finding  it  out.     You  are  not  offended,  my  dear  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  can't  think  how  we  shall  manage  about  his  fees  ;  still 
it  would  have  been  wrong  to  have  refused  his  kindness — 
so  well-meant  and  so  dehcately  given.  I  am  sure  he  has 
the  gentlest  ways  and  the  tenderest  heart  of  any  man  I  ever 
knew.     Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"Yes."    . 

But,  for  all  that,  after  the  first  week,  I  did  not  progress 
so  fast  as  they  two  expected — also  papa  and  Penelope,  who 
came  over  to  see  me,  and  seemed  equally  satisfied  with 
Doctor  Urquhart's  "  kindness."  Perhaps  this  very  "  kind- 
ness," as  I,  hke  the  rest,  now  believed  it,  made  things  a 
little  more  trying  for  me.  Or  else  the  disease — the  fever 
and  ague — had  taken  a  firmer  hold  on  me  than  any  body 
knew.  Some  days  I  felt  as  if  health  were  a  long  way  ott', 
in  fact,  not  visible  at  all  in  this  mortal  life  ;  and  the  possi- 
bihty  seemed  sometimes  easy  to  bear,  sometimes  hard.  I 
had  many  changes  of  mood  and  temper,  very  sore  to  strug- 
gle against ;  for  all  of  which  now  I  humbly  crave  forgwe- 
ness  of  my  dear  and  kind  friends,  who  were  so  patient  with 
me,  and  of  Him,  the  most  merciful  of  all. 
.  Doctor  Urquhart  came  daily,  as  I  have  said.  We  had 
often  very  long  talks  together,  sometimes  with  Mrs.  Gran- 


236  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

toD,  sometimes  alone.  He  told  me  of  all  liis  doings  and 
plans,  and  gradually  brought  me  out  of  the  narrow  sick- 
room world  into  which  I  was  falling,  toward  the  current 
of  outward  life — his  own  active  life,  with  its  large  aims, 
duties,  and  cares.  The  interest  of  it  roused  me ;  the  power 
and  beauty  of  it  strengthened  me.  All  the  dreams  of  my 
youth,  together  with  one  I  had  dreamed  that  evening  by 
the  moorland  pool,  came  back  again.  I  sometimes  longed 
for  life,  that  I  might  live  as  he  did ;  in  any  manner,  any 
where,  at  any  sacrifice,  so  that  it  was  a  life  in  some  way 
resembling  and  not  unworthy  of  his  own.  This  sort  of  life 
— equally  solitary,  equally  painful,  devoted  more  to  duty 
than  to  joy — was,  heaven  knows,  all  I  then  thought  possi- 
ble. And  I  still  think  with  it,  and  with  my  thorough 
reverence  and  trust  in  him,  and  his  sole,  special,  unfailing 
affection  for  me,  I  could  have  been  content  all  my  days. 

My  spirit  was  brave  enough,  but  sometimes  my  heart 
was  weak.  When  we  have  been  accustomed  to  rest  on 
any  other — to  find  each  day  the  tie  become  more  familiar, 
more  necessary,  belonging  to  daily  life,  and  daily  want — ^to 
feel  the  house  empty,  as  it  were,  till  there  comes  the  ring 
at  the  door  or  the  step  in  the  hall — and  to  be  aware  that 
all  this  can  not  last,  that  it  must  come  to  an  end,  and  one 
must  go  back  to  the  old,  old  life,  shut  up  in  one's  self,  with 
no  arm  to  lean  on,  no  smile  to  brighten  and  guide  one,  no 
voice  to  say,  "  You  are  right,  do  it,"  or  "  There  I  think 
you  are  wrong" — then  one  grows  frightened. 

When  I  thought  of  his  going  to  Liverpool,  my  courage 
broke  down.  I  would  hide  my  head  in  my  pillow  of  nights, 
and  say  to  myself,  "  Theodora,  you  are  a  coward ;  will  not 
the  good  God  make  you  strong  enough  by  yourself,  even 
for  any  sort  of  life  He  requires  of  you  ?  Leave  all  in  His 
hands."  So  I  tried  to  do  ;  believmg  that,  from  any  feeling 
that  was  holy  and  innocent,  He  would  not  allow  me  to  suf^ 
fer  more  than  I  could  bear,  or  more  than  is  good  for  all  of 
us  to  suffer  at  times. 

(I  did  not  mean  to  write  thus ;  I  meant  only  to  tell  my 
outward  story ;  but  such  as  is  written,  let  it  be — ^I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.) 

Thus  things  went  on,  and  I  did  not  get  stronger. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Mrs.  Granton  went  a  long  drive, 
to  see  some  family  in  whom  Doctor  IJrquhart  had  made 
her  take  an  interest ;  if,  indeed,  there  was  need  to  do  more 
than  mention  any  one's  being  in  trouble,  in  the  dear  worn- 


A   LITE    FOE    A   LIFE.  237 

all's  hearing,  in  order  to  unseal  a  whole  torrent  of  benevo- 
lence. The  peoj^le's  name  was  Ansdell ;  they  were  stran- 
gers, belonging  to  the  camp ;  there  was  a  daughter  d^dng 
of  consumption. 

It  was  one  of  my  dark  days,  and  I  lay  thinking  how  much 
useless  sentiment  is  wasted  upon  the  young  who  die ;  how 
much  vain  regret  at  their  being  so  early  removed  from  the 
enjoyments  they  share,  and  the  good  they  are  doing,  when 
they  often  do  no  good,  and  have  little  joy  to  lose.  Take, 
for  instance,  Mrs.  Granton  and  me :  if  Death  hesitated  be- 
tween us,  I  know  which  he  had  better  choose :  the  one  who 
had  least  pleasure  in  hving,  and  who  would  be  easiest 
spared — who,  from  either  error  or  fate,  or  some  inherent 
faults  which  become  almost  equal  to  a  fate,  had  lived  twen- 
ty-five years  without  being  of  the  smallest  use  to  any  body ; 
and  to  whom  the  best  that  could  happen  would  apj^arently 
be  to  be  caught  up  in  the  arms  of  the  Great  Reaper,  and 
sown  afresh  in  a  new  world,  to  begin  again. 

Let  me  confess  all  this — because  it  explains  the  mood 
which  I  afterward  betrayed  ;  and  because  it  caused  me  to 
find  out  that  I  was  not  the  only  person  into  whose  mind 
such  wild  and  wicked  thoughts  have  come,  to  be  reasoned 
down,  battled  down,  prayed  down. 

I  was  in  the  large  drawing-room,  supposed  to  be  lying 
peacefully  on  the  sofa,  but  in  reahty  cowering  down  all  in 
a  heap,  within  the  small  circle  of  the  firelight.  Beyond,  it 
Avas  very  dark — so  dark  that  the  shadows  would  have  fright- 
ened me,  were  there  not  too  many  spectres  close  at  hand ; 
sad  or  evil  sjmits,  such  as  come  about  us  all  in  our  dark 
days.  Still,  the  silence  was  so  ghostly  that  when  the  door 
opened  I  shghtly  screamed. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid.     It  is  only  I." 

I  was  shaken  hands  with ;  and  I  apologized  for  having 
been  so  startled.  Doctor  IJrquhart  said  it  was  he  .who 
ought  to  apologize,  but  he  had  knocked,  and  I  did  not  an- 
swer, and  he  had  walked  in,  being  "  anxious."  Then  he 
spoke  about  other  things,  and  I  soon  became  myself,  and 
sat  listening,  with  my  eyes  closed,  till,  suddenly  seeiog  him, 
I  saw  him  looking  at  me. 

"  You  have  been  worse  to-day.'^ 

"  It  was  my  bad  day.'* 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  you  really  better." 

"  Thank  you." 

My  eyes  closed  again — all  things  seemed  dim  and  far  off, 


238  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

as  if  my  life  were  floating  away,  and  I  had  no  care  to  seize 
hold  of  it — easier  to  let  it  go. 

"My  patient  does  not  do  me  much  credit.  When  do 
yon  intend  to  honor  me  by  recovering,  Miss  Theodora  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  it  does  not  much  matter."  It  wearied 
me  to  answer  even  him. 

He  rose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  several  times, 
and  returned  to  his  place. 

"  Miss  Theodora,  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to  you  se- 
riously, about  your  health.  I  should  like  to  see  you  better 
— very  much  better  than  now — before  I  go  away." 

"  Possibly  you  may." 

"  In  any  case,  you  will  have  to  take  great  care — to  be 
taken  great  care  of — for  months  to  come.  Your  health  is 
very  delicate.     Are  you  aware  of  that  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  You  must  listen — " 

The  tone  roused  me. 

"  K  you  please,  you  must  listen  to  what  I  am  saying. 
It  is  useless  telling  any  one  else,  but  I  tell  you,  that  if  you 
do  not  take  care  of  yourself  you  will  die." 

I  looked  up.  1^0  one  but  he  would  have  said  such  a 
thing  to  me — if  he  said  it,  it  must  be  true. 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  wrong  to  die — ^to  let  yourself 
carelessly  slip  out  of  God's  world,  in  which  he  put  you  to 
do  good  work  there?" 

"  I  have  no  work  to  do." 

"  None  of  us  can  say  that.  You  ought  not — you  shall 
not.     I  wiU  not  allow  it." 

His  words  struck  me.  There  was  truth  in  them — the 
truth,  the  faith  of  my  first  youth,  though  both  had  faded  in 
after  years — ^till  I  knew  him.  And  this  was  why  I  clung 
to  this  friend  of  mine,  because  amid  all  the  shams  and  false- 
nesses around  me,  and  even  in  myself — in  him  I  ever  found, 
clearly  acknowledged,  and  bravely  outspoken — the  truth. 
Why  should  he  not  help  me  now  ? 

Humbly  I  asked  him  "  if  he  were  angry  with  me." 

"  Not  angry,  but  grieved ;  you  little  know  how  dee23ly." 

Was  it  for  my  dying,  or  my  wickedly  wishing  to  die  ? 
I  knew  not ;  but  that  he  was  strongly  aflected,  more  even 
than  he  liked  me  to  see,  I  did  see,  and  it  lifted  the  stone 
from  my  heart. 

"  I  know  I  have  been  very  wicked.  If  any  one  would 
thoroughly  scold  me — if  I  could  only  tell  any  body — " 


•a  LTFE  rOR  A  LIFE.  239 

"  Why  can  not  you  tell  me  ?" 

So  I  told  him,  as  far  as  I  could,  all  the  dark  thoughts  that 
had  been  troubling  me  this  day ;  I  laid  upon  him  all  my 
burdens ;  I  confessed  to  him  all  my  sins ;  and  when  I  end- 
ed, not  without  agitation,  for  I  had  never  spoken  so  plainly 
of  myself  to  any  creature  before,  Doctor  XJrquhart  talked 
to  me  long  and  gently  upon  the  things  wherein  he  consid- 
ered me  wrong  in  myself  and  in  my  home;  and  of  other 
thmgs  where  he  thought  I  was  only  "fooli-sh,"  or  "mis- 
taken." Then  he  spoke  of  the  manifold  duties  I  had  in 
life ;  of  the  glory  and  beauty  of  livuig ;  of  the  peace  attain- 
able, even  in  this  world,  by  a  life  which,  if  ever  so  sad  and 
difficult,  has  done  the  best  it  could  with  the  materials  grant- 
ed to  it — has  walked,  so  far  as  it  could  see,  in  its  appointed 
course,  and  left  the  rewarding  ^nd  the  brightening  of  it 
solely  in  the  hands  of  Him  who  gave  it ;  who  never  gives 
any  thing  in  vain. 

This  was  his  "  sermon" — as,  smiling,  I  afterward  called 
it,  though  all  was  said  very  simply,  and  as  tenderly  as  if  he 
had  been  talking  with  a  child.  At  the  end  of  it,  I  looked 
at  him  by  a  sudden  blaze  of  the  fire ;  and  it  seemed  as  if, 
mortal  man  as  he  was,  with  faults  enough  doubtless— and 
some  of  them  I  already  knew,  though  there  is  no  necessity 
to  publish  them  here — I  "  saw  his  face  as  it  had  been  the 
face  of  an  'angel."  And  I  thanked  God,  who  sent  him  to 
me — who  sent  us  each  to  one  another. 

For  what  should  Doctor  XJrquhart  reply  when  I  asked 
him  how  he  came  to  learn  all  these  good  things,  but — also 
smiling : 

"  Some  of  them  I  learned  from  you." 

"  Me  ?"  I  said,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes ;  perhaps  I  may  tell  you  how  it  was  some  day,  but 
not  now."  He  spoke  hurriedly,  and  immediately  began 
talking  to  me  about,  and  informing  me — as  he  had  now  got 
a  habit  of  doing — exactly  how  his  affairs  stood.  Now,  they 
were  nearly  wound  up ;  and  it  became  needful  he  should 
leave  the  camp,  and  begin  his  new  duties  by  a  certain  day. 

After  a  little  more  talk,  he  fixed — or  rather,  we  fixed,  for . 
he  asked  me  to  decide — that  day ;  briefly,  as  if  it  had  been 
like  any  other  day  in  the  year ;  and  quietly  as  if  it  had  not 
rivolved  the  total  endmg  for  the  present,  with  an  indefin- 
ite future,  of  all  this — what  shall  I  call  it  ?  between  him  and 
ne,  which,  to  one,  at  least,  had  become  as  natm'al  and  nec- 
-sssary  as  daily  bread. 


240     /  A   LIFE    Foil    A    LIFE.' 

Thinking  now  of  that  two  or  three  minutes  of  silence 
which  followed  —  I  could  be  very  sorry  for  myself — far 
more  so  than  then;  for  then  I  hardly  felt  it  at  all. 

Doctor  Urquhart  rose,  and  said  he  must  go — he  could 
not  wait  longer  for  Mrs.  Granton. 

"Thursday  week  is  the  day,  then,"  he  added,  "after 
which  I  shall  not  see  you  again  for  many  months." 

"  I  &u23pose  not." 

"I  can  not  write  to  you.  I  wish  I  could;  but  such  a 
correspondence  would  not  be  possible,  would  not  be  right." 

I  think  I  said  mechanically,  "  No." 

I  was  standing  by  the  mantle-piece,  steadying  myself 
with  one  hand,  the  other  dropj)ing  down.  Doctor  IJrqu- 
hart  touched  it  for  a  second. 

"  It  is  the  very  thinnest  hand  I  ever  saw !  You  will  re- 
member," he  then  said,  "in  case  this  should  be  our  last 
chance  of  talking  together — you  will  remember  all  we  have 
been  saying  ?  You  will  do  all  you  can  to  recover  j)erfect 
health,  so  as  to  be  happy  and  useful  ?  You  will  never  think 
despondingly  of  your  life ;  there  is  many  a  life  much  hard- 
er than  yours ;  you  will  have  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope, 
as  a  girl  ought  to  have,  who  is  so  precious  to — many !  Will 
you  promise  ?" 

"I  will." 

"  Good-by,  then." 

"  Good-by." 

Whether  he  took  my  hands,  or  I  gave  them,  I  do  not 
know ;  but  I  felt  them  held  tight  against  his  breast,  and 
him  looking  at  me  as  if  he  could  not  part  with  me,  or  as  if, 
before  we  parted,  he  was  compelled  to  tell  me  something. 
But  when  I  looked  up  at  him  we  seemed  of  a  sudden  to 
understand  every  thing  without  need  of  telHng.  He  only 
said  four  words — "  Is  this  my  wife  ?"     And  I  said  "  Yes." 

Then — he  kissed  me. 

Once  I  used  to  like  reading  and  hearing  all  about  love 
and  lovers,  what  they  said  and  how  they  looked,  and  how 
happy  they  were  in  one  another.  ISTow,  it  seems  as  if  these 
things  ought  never  to  be  read  or  told  by  any  mortal  tongue 
or  pen. 

When  Max  went  away  I  sat  where  I  was,  ahnost  without 
stirring,  for  a  whole  hour,  until  Mrs.  Granton  came  in  and 
gave  me  the  history  of  her  drive,  and  all  about  Lucy  Ans- 
dell,  who  had  died  that  afternoon.     Poor  girl — poor  girl ! 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  241 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

HEE    STOET. 


Heke,  |)etween  the  locked  leaves  of  my  journal,  I  keep 
the  first  letter  I  ever  had  from  Max. 

It  came  early  in  the  mornmg,  the  morning  after  that 
evening  which  will  always  seem  to  us  two,  I  think,  some- 
thing like  what  we  read  of,  that  "  the  evening  and  the  morn- 
ing were  the  first  day."  It  was,  indeed,  Hke  the  first  day 
of  a  new  world. 

When  the  letter  came  I  was  still  fast  asleep,  for  I  had 
not  gone  and  lain  awake  all  night,  which,  under  the  circum- 
stances (as  I  told  Max),  it  was  a  young  lady's  duty  to  have 
done ;  I  only  laid  my  head  down  with  a  feeling  of  inefiahle 
rest— rest  in  heaven's  kindness,  which  had  brought  all 
things  to  this  end — and  rest  m  his  love,  from  which  nothing 
now  could  ever  thrust  me,  and  in  the  thought  of  which  I 
w^ent  to  sleep,  as  safe  as  a  tired  child ;  knoTvdng  I  should 
be  safe  for  all  my  life  long  with  him — my  IMax — ^my  hus- 
band, 

''  Lover"  was  a  word  that  did  not  seem  to  suit  him,  gi-ave 
as  he  was,  and  so  much  older  than  I.  I  never  expected 
from  him  any  thing  like  the  behavior  of  a  lover ;  indeed, 
should  hardly  like  to  see  him  in  that  character ;  it  would 
not  look  natural.  But  from  tlie  hour  he  said,  "  Is  tliis  my 
wife  ?"  I  have  ever  and  only  thought  of  him  as  "  my  hus- 
band," ▼ 

My  dear  Max !  Here  is  his  letter — which  lay  before  my 
eyes  in  the  dim  dawn ;  it  did  not  come  by  jwst — ^he  must 
have  left  it  himself;  and  the  maid  brought  it  in,  no  doubt 
thinking  it  a  professional  epistle.  And  I  take  great  credit 
to  myself  for  the  composed  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  I 
said  "  it  was  all  right,  and  there  was  no  answer,"  put  down 
my  letter,  and  made  believe  to  go  to  sleep  again. 

Let  me  laugh — it  is  not  wrong ;  and  I  laugh  still  as  much 
as  ever  I  can ;  it  is  good  for  me  and  good  for  Max.  He 
says  scarcely  any  thuig  in  the  world  does  him  so  much  good 
as  to  see  me  merry. 

It  felt  very  strange  at  first  to  open  his  letter  and  see  my 
name  written  in  his  hand. 

L 


242  A    LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE. 

Saturday  night. 

My  dear  Theodora, — I  do  not  say  "  dearest,"  because 
there  is  no  one  to  put  in  comparison  with  you ;  you  are  to 
me  the  one  woman  in  the  world. 

My  dear  Theodora — ^let  me  write  it  over  again  to  assure 
myself  that  it  may  be  written  at  all,  which,  perhaps,  it  ought 
not  to  be  till  you  have  read  this  letter. 

Last  night  I  left  you  so  soon,  or  it  seemed  soon,  and  we 
said  so  little,  that  I  never  told  you  some  things  which  you 
ought  to  have  been  made  aware  of  at  once ;  even  before 
you  were  allowed  to  answer  that  question  of  mine.  For- 
give me.  In  my  own  defense  let  me  say,  that  when  I  vis- 
ited you  yesterday  I  meant  only  to  have  the  sight  of  you — 
the  comfort  of  your  society — all  I  hoped  or  intended  to  win 
for  years  to  come.  But  I  was  shaken  out  of  all  self-control 
— ^first,  by  the  terror  of  losing  you,  and  then  by  a  look  in 
your  sweet  eyes.  You  know !  It  was  to  be,  and  it  was. 
Theodora — gift  of  God ! — ^may  He  bless  you  for  showing, 
just  for  that  one  moment,  what  there  was  in  your  heart  to- 
ward me. 

My  feelings  toward  you  you  can  guess — a  little ;  the  rest 
you  must  believe  in.     I  can  not  write  about  them. 

The  object  of  this  letter  is  to  tell  you  something  which 
you  ought  to  be  told  before  I  see  you  again. 

You  may  remember  my  once  saying  it  was  not  likely  I 
should  ever  marry.  Such,  indeed,  was  long  my  determina- 
tion, and  the  reason  was  this.  When  I  was  a  mere  boy — 
just  before  Dallas  died — there  happened  to  me  an  event 
so  awful,  both  in  itself  and  its  results,  that  it  changed  my 
whole  character,  darkened  my  Ijjfe,  turned  me  from  a  lively, 
carelesSj  high-spirited  lad,  into  a  morbid  and  miserable  man, 
whose  very  existence  was  a  burden  to  him  for  years.  And 
though  gradually,  thank  God !  I  recovered  from  this  state, 
so  as  not  to  have  an  altogether  useless  hfe,  still  I  never  was 
myself  again,  never  knew  happiness — ^till  I  knew  you.  You 
came  to  me  as  unforeseen  a  blessing  as  if  you  had  fallen 
from  the  clouds :  first  you  interested,  then  you  cheered  me, 
then,  in  various  ways,  you  brought  light  into  my  darkness, 
hope  to  my  despair.     And  then  I  loved  you. 

The  same  cause,  which  I  can  not  now  fully  explain,  be- 
cause I  must  first  take  a  journey,  but  you  shall  know  every 
thing  within  a  week  or  ten  days — the  same  cause  which 
has  oppressed  my  whole  life  prevented  me  from  daring  to 
win  you.     I  always  believed  that  a  man  circumstanced  a&  I 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  243 

was  had  no  right  ever  to  think  of  marriage.  Some  words 
of  yom'S  led  me  of  late  to  change  this  opinion.  I  resolved, 
at  some  future  time,  to  lay  my  whole  history  before  you — 
as  to  a  mere  friend — to  ask  you  the  question  whether  or 
not,  under  the  circumstances,  I  was  justified  in  seeking  any 
woman  for  my  wife  ;  and,  on  your  answer,  to  decide  either 
to  try  and  make  you  love  me,  or  only  to  love  you,  as  I 
should  have  loved,  and  shall  forever. 

What  I  then  meant  to  tell  you  is  still  to  be  told.  I  do 
not  dread  the  revelation  as  I  once  did :  all  things  seem  dif- 
ferent to  me. 

I  am  hardly  the  same  man  that  I  was  twelve  hours  ago. 
Twelve  hours  ago  I  had  never  told  you  what  you  are  to 
me — ^never  had  you  in  my  arms — never  read  the  love  in 
your  dear  eyes — oh,  child,  do  not  ever  be  afraid  or  ashamed 
of  letting  me  see  you  love  me,  unworthy  as  I  am.  If  you 
had  not  loved  me,  I  should  have  drifted  away  into  perdition 
— I  mean,  I  might  have  lost  myself  altogether  so  far  as  re- 
gards this  world. 

That  is  not  likely  now.  You  will  save  me,  and  I  shall 
be  so  happy  that  I  shall  be  able  to  make  you  happy.  We 
will  never  be  two  again — only  one.  Already  you  feel  like 
a  part  of  me,  and  it  seems  as  natural  to  write  to  you  thus 
as  if  you  had  been  mine  for  years.  Mine !  Some  day  you 
will  find  out  all  that  is  sealed  up  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
of  my  age  and  of  my  disposition — when  the  seal  is  once 
broken. 

Since,  mitil  I  have  taken  my  journey,  I  can  not  speak  to 
your  father,  it  seems  right  that  my  next  visit  to  you  should 
be  only  that  of  a  friend.  Whether,  after  having  read  this 
letter,  which  at  once  confesses  so  much  and  so  little,  you 
think  me  worthy  even  of  that  title,  your  first  look  will  de- 
cide. I  shall  find  out,  without  need  of  your  saying  one 
word. 

I  shall  probably  come  on  Monday,  and  then  not  again ; 
to  meet  you  only  as  a  friend,  used  to  be  sufiiciently  hard ; 
to  meet  you  with  this  uncertainty  overhanging  me  would 
be  all  but  impossible.  Besides,  honor  to  your  father  com- 
pels this  absence  and  silence  until  my  explanations  are 
made. 

Will  you  forgive  me  ?  Will  you  trust  me  ?  I  think  you 
wUl. 

I  hope  you  have  minded  my  "  orders,"  rested  all  even- 
ing and  retired  early?     I  hope  on  Monday  I  may  see  a 


24.4  A    LIFE    FOR    A    Lii'l!:. 

rose  on  your  cheeks — a  tiny,  delicate,  winter-rose.  That 
poor,  httle,  thin  cheek,  it  grieves  my  heart.  You  77'mst  get 
strong. 

If  b}''  your  manner  you  show  that  this  letter  has  changed 
your  oi^inion  of  me,  that  you  desire  yesterday  to  be  alto- 
gether forgotten,  I  shall  understand  it  and  obey. 

Remember,  whatever  happens,  whether  you  are  ever  my 
own  or  not,  that  you  are  the  only  woman  I  ever  Avished  for 
my  wife — the  only  one  I  shall  ever  marry.     Yours, 

Max  Ubqijhart. 

I  read  his  letter  many  times  over. 

Then  I  rose  and  dressed  myself  carefully,  as  if  it  had  been 
my  marriage  morning.  He  loved  me ;  I  was  the  only  woman 
he  had  ever  wished  for  his  wife.  It  was,  in  truth,  my  mar- 
riage morning. 

Coming  down  stairs,  Mrs.  Granton  met  me,  all  delight  at 
my  having  risen  so  soon. 

"  Such  an  advance !  We  must  be  sure  and  tell  Doctor 
Urquhart.  By-the-by,  did  he  not  leave  a  note  or  message 
early  this  morning  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  will  probably  call  on  Monday." 

She  looked  surprised  that  I  did  not  produce  the  note, 
but  made  no  remark.  And  I,  two  days  before,  should  have 
been  scarlet  and  tongue-tied,  but  now  things  were  quite 
altered.  I  was  his  chosen,  his  wife ;  there  was  neither  hy- 
pocrisy nor  deceit  in  keeping  a  secret  between  him  and 
me.  Yie  belonged  to  one  another,  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  had  nothing  to  do  with  us." 

ITevertheless,  my  heart  felt  running  over  with  tenderness 
toward  the  dear  old  lady,  as  it  did  toward  my  father  and 
my  sisters,  and  every  thing  belonging  to  me  in  this  wide 
world.  ,When  Mrs.  Granton  went  to  church,  I  sat  for  a 
long  time  in  the  west  parlor,  reading  the  Bible  all  alone — 
at  least,  as  much  alone  as  I  ever  can  be  in  this  world  again, 
after  knowing  that  Max  loves  me. 

It  being  such  an  exceedingly  mild  and  warm  day — won- 
derful for  the  first  day  of  February — an  idea  came  into  my 
head,  which  was,  indeed,  strictly  according  to  "  orders," 
only  I  never  yet  had  had  the  courage  to  obey.  Now  I 
thought  I  would.  It  would  please  him  so,  and  Mrs.  Gran- 
ton too. 

So  I  ]y\\t  on  my  out-door  gear,  and  actually  walked,  all 
by  myself,  to  the  hill-top,  a  hundred  yards  or  more.     There 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 


2#5 


I  sat  down  on  the  familiar  bench,  and  looked  round  on  the 
well-known  view.  Ah  me !  for  how  many  years,  and  un- 
der how  many  various  circumstances,  have  I  come  and  sat 
on  that  bench,  and  looked  at  that  view ! 

It  was  very  beautiful  to-day,  though  almost  deathlike  in 
its  supernatural  sunshiny  calm,  such  as  one  only  sees  in 
these  accidental  fine  days  which  come  in  early  winter,  or 
sometimes  as  a  kind  of  spectral  antitype  of  sprmg.  Such 
utter  stillness  every  where.  The  sole  thing  that  seemed 
alive  or  moving  in  the  v>^hole  landscape  was  a  wreath  of 
gray  smoke  springing  from  some  invisible  cottage  behind 
the  fir  wood,  and  curling  away  upward  till  it  lost  itself  in 
the  opal  air.  Hill,  moorland,  wood,  and  sky  lay  still  as  a 
picture,  and  fair  as  the  Land  of  Beulah,  the  Celestial  Coun- 
try. It  would  hardly  have  been  strange  to  see  spirits 
walking  there,  or  to  have  turned  and  found  sitting  on  the 
bench  beside  me  my  mother  and  my  half  brother,  Harry, 
who  died  so  long  ago,  and  whose  faces  in  that  Comitry  I 
shall  first  recognize. 

My  mother.  E'ever  till  now  did  I  feel  the  want  of  her. 
It  seems  only  her — only  a  mother — to  whom  I  could  tell, 
"  Max  loves  me — I  am  going  to  be  Max's  Avife." 

And  Harry — poor  Harry,  whom  also  I  scarcely  knew — 
whose  life  was  so  wretched,  and  whose  death  so  awful ;  he 
might  have  been  a  better  man  if  he  had  only  knowm  my 
Max.  I  am  forgetting,  though,  how  old  he  would  have 
been  now ;  and  how  Max  must  have  been  a  mere  boy 
when  my  brother  died. 

I  do  not  often  think  of  Harry.  It  would  be  hardly  nat- 
ural that  I  should ;  all  happened  so  long  ago  that  his  mem- 
ory has  never  been  more  than  a  passing  shadovv^  across  the 
family  lives.  But  to-day,  when  every  one  of  my  own  flesh 
and  blood  seemed  to  grow  nearer  to  me,  I  thought  of  him 
more  than  once ;  tried  to  recall  the  circumstances  of  his 
dreadful  end ;  and  then  to  think  of  him  only  os  a  glorified, 
purified  spirit,  walking  upon  the  hills  of  Beulah.  Perhaps 
now  looking  down  upon  me,  "  baby"  that  was,  whom  he 
was  once  reported,  in  one  of  his  desperate  visits  home,  to 
have  snatched  out  of  the  cradle  and  liissed ;  knowing  all 
that  had  lately  happened  to  me,  and  wishing  me  a  hap'py 
life  with  my  dear  Max. 

I  took  out  Max's  letter,  and  read  it  over  again  in  the 
sunshine  and  open  air. 

Oh,  the  happiness  of  knowing  that  one  can  make  an- 


246  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

other  bappy — entirely  happy !  Oh,  how  good  I  ought  to 
grow! 

For  the  events  which  have  caused  him  so  much  pain,  and 
Avhich  he  has  yet  to  tell  papa  and  me — they  did  not  weigh 
much  on  my  mind.  Probably  there  is  no  family  in  which 
there  is  not  some  such  painful  revelation  to  be  made ;  we 
also  have  to  tell  him  about  poor  Harry.  But  these  things 
are  purely  accidental  and  external.  His  fear  that  I  should 
"change  my  opinion  of  him"  made  me  smile.  "Max,"  I 
said,  out  loud,  addressing  myself  to  the  neighboring  heath- 
er-bush, which  might  be  considered  a  delicate  compliment 
to  the  land  where  he  was  born,  "  Oh,  Max,  what  nonsense 
you  do  talk!  While  you  are  you,  and  I  am  myself,  you 
and  I  are  one." 

Descending  the  hill-toj),  I  pressed  all  these  my  happy 
thoughts  deep  down  into  my  heart,  covered  them  up,  and 
went  back  in  the  world  again. 

Mrs.  Granton  and  I  spent  a  quiet  day ;  the  quieter,  that 
I  afterward  paid  for  my  feats  on  the  hill-top  by  hours  of 
extreme  exhaustion.  It  was  my  oAvn  folly,  I  told  her,  and 
tried  to  laugh  at  it,  saying  I  should  be  better  to-morrow. 

But  many  a  time  the  thought  came,  what  if  I  should  not 
be  better  to-morrow,  nor  any  to-morrow  ?  What  if,  after 
all,  I  should  have  to  go  away  and  leave  him  with  no  one  to 
make  him  happy  ?  And  then  I  learned  how  precious  life 
had  grown,  and  tasted,  in  degree,  what  is  meant  by  "  the 
bitterness  of  death." 

But  it  did  not  last.  And  by  this  I  know  that  our  love 
is  holy :  that  I  can  now  think  of  either  his  departure  or  my 
own  without  either  terror  or  despair.  I  know  that  even 
death  itself  can  never  part  Max  and  me. 

Monday  came.  I  was  really  better,  and  went  about  the 
house  with  Mrs.  Granton  all  the  forenoon.  She  asked  me 
what  time  Doctor  Urquhart  had  said  he  should  be  here ; 
with  various  other  questions  about  him.  All  of  which  I 
answered  without  confusion  or  hesitation ;  it  seemed  as  if 
I  had  now  belonged  to  him  for  a  long  time.  But  when,  at 
last,  his  ring  came  to  the  hall  door,  all  the  blood  rushed  to 
my  heart,  and  back  again  into  my  face — and  Mrs.  Granton 
saw  it. 

What  Vv^as  I  to  do  ?  to  try  and  "  throw  dust"  into  those 
keen,  kind  eyes,  to  tell  or  act  a  falsehood,  as  if  I  were 
ashamed  of  myself  or  him  ?  I  could  not.  So  I  simply  sat 
silent,  and  let  her  think  what  she  chose. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  247 

"Whatever  slie  thought,  the  good  old  lady  said  nothing. 
She  sighed — ^ah !  it  went  to  my  conscience,  that  sigh — and 
yet  I  have  done  no  wrong  either  to  her  or  Cohn ;  then, 
making  some  excuse,  she  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  the 
four  walls  only  beheld  Max  and  me  when  we  met. 

After  we  had  shaken  hands,  we  sat  do^ai  in  silence. 
Then  I  asked  him  what  he  had  been  doing  with  himself  all 
yesterday,  and  he  told  me  he  had  spent  it  with  the  poor 
Ansdells. 

"  They  wished  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  best  to  go." 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  glad  you  went." 

Doctor  Urquhart  (of  course  I  shall  go  on  calling  him 
"  Doctor  Urquhart,"  to  people  in  general ;  nobody  but  me 
has  any  business  with  his  Christian  name),  Doctor  IJrquhart 
looked  at  me  and  smiled  ;  then  he  began  telling  me  about 
these  friends  of  his ;  and  how  broken-hearted  the  old  moth- 
er w^as,  having  lost  both  daughters  in  a  few  months — did  I 
remember  the  night  of  the  camp  concert,  and  young  Ans- 
dell  who  sung  there  ? 

I  remembered  some  young  man  being  called  for,  as  Doc- 
tor Urquhart  wanted  him, 

"  Yes — I  had  to  summon  him  home ;  his  eldest  sister  had 
suddenly  died.  Only  a  cold  and  fever — such  as  you  your- 
self might  have  caught  that  night — you  thoughtless  girl. 
You  little  knew  how  angry  you  made  me." 

"Did  I?  Somethingv was  amiss  with  you — I  did  not 
know  what — but  I  saw  it  in  your  looks." 

"  Could  you  read  my  looks  even  then,  little  lady?" 

It  was  idle  to  deny  it — and  why  should  I,  when  it  made 
him  happy  ?  Radiantly  happy  his  face  was  now — the  sharp 
lines  softened,  the  wrinkles  smoothed  out.  He  looked  ten 
years  younger ;  ah !  I  am  glad  I  am  only  a  girl  still ;  in 
time  I  shall  actually  make  him  young. 

Here,  the  hall  bell  sounded — and  though  visitors  are 
never  admitted  to  this  special  little  parlor,  still  Max  turned 
restless,  and  said  he  must  go. 

"Why?" 

He  hesitated — then  said  hastily, 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth ;  I  am  happier  out  of  your 
sight  than  m  it,  just  at  present." 

I  made  no  answer. 

"To-night,  I  mean  to  start — on  that  journey  I  told  you 
of."     Which  was  to  him  a  very  painful  one,  I  perceived. 

"  Go,  then,  and  get  it  over.     You  will  come  back  to  me 


248  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

"  God  grant  it."     He  was  very  much  agitated. 

The  only  woman  he  had  ever  wished  for  his  wife.  This, 
I  was.  And  I  felt  like  a  wife.  Talk  of  Penelope^s  long 
courtship — Lisabel's  marriage — it  was  I  that  was,  in  heart 
and  soul,  the  real  imfe  ;  ay,  though  Max  and  I  were  never 
more  to  one  another  than  now ;  though  I  lived  as  Theo- 
dora Johnston  to  the  end  of  my  days. 

So  I  took  courage — and  since  it  was  not  allowed  me  to 
comfort  him  in  any  other  way,  I  just  stole  my  hand  inside 
his,  which  clasped  instantly  and  tightly  round  it.  That 
was  all,  and  that  was  enough.  Thus  we  sat  side  by  side, 
when  the  door  opened — and  in  walked  papa. 

How  strangely  the  comic  and  the  serious  are  mixed  up 
together,  in  life,  and  even  in  one's  own  nature.  While 
writing  this,  I  have  gone  off  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter  at 
the  recollection  of  papa's,  face  when  he  saw  us  sitting  there. 

Though  at  the  time  it  was  no  laughmg  matter.  For  a 
moment  he  was  dumb  with  astonishment,  then  he  said  se- 
verely, 

"Doctor  Urquhart,  I  suppose  I  must  conclude — indeed^ 
I- can  only  conclude  one  thing.  But  you  might  have 
spoken  to  me  before  addressing  yourself  to  ray  daughter." 

Max  did  not  answer  immediately — when  he  did  his  voice 
absolutely  made  me  start. 

"  Sir,  I  have  been  very  wrong* — ^but  I  will  make  amends 
— ^you  shall  know  all.  Only  first — as  my  excuse,"  here  he 
spoke  out  passionately,  and  told  papa  all  that  I  was  to  him, 
all  that  we  were  to  one  another. 

Poor  papa,  it  must  have  reminded  him  of  his  own  young 
days — ^I  have  heard  he  was  very  fond  of  his  first  wife, 
Harry's  mother — ^for  when  I  hmig  about  his  neck,  mine 
were  not  the  only  tears.     He  held  out  his  hand  to  Max. 

"  Doctor,  I  forgive  you ;  and  there  is  not  a  man  alive  on 
whom  I  would  so  gladly  bestow  this  little  girl  as  you." 

And  here  Max  tried  me — as  I  suppose  people  not  yet 
quite  familiar  will  be  sure  to  try  one  another  at  first. 
Without  saying  a  word,  or  even  accepting  papa's  hand,  he 
walked  straight  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  not  right — even  if  he  were  ever  so  much  un- 
nerved ;  why  should  he  be  too  proud  to  show  it  ?  and  it 
might  have  seriously  offended  papa.  I  softened  matters  as 
vs^ell  as  I  could,  by  explaining  that  he  had  not  wished  to 
ask  me  of  papa  till  a  week  hence,  when  he  should  be  able 
fully  to  enter  into  his  circumstances. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  249 

"My  dear,"  papa  interrupted,  "go  and  tell  Mm  he  may 
comm^micate  them  at  Avhatever  time  he  chooses.  When 
such  a  man  as  Doctor  Urquhart  honestly  comes  and  asks 
me  for  my  daughter,  you  may  be  sure  the  very  last  thing 
I  should  ask  him  would  be  about  his  circumstances." 

With  my  heart  brimful  at  papa's  kindness,  I  went  to  ex- 
plain this  to  Max.  I  found  him  alone  in  the  library,  stand- 
mg  motionless  at  the  window.  I  touched  him,  with  some 
silly  coquettish  speech  about  how  he  could  think  of  letting 
me  rmi  after  him  in  this  fashion.     He  turned  round. 

"  Oh,  Max,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Oh,  Max !"  I  could  no 
more. 

"  My  child  !"  He  soothed  me  by  calling  me  by  that  and 
several  other  fond  names,  but  all  these  things  are  between 
him  and  me  alone.  "ISTow,  good-by.  I  must  bid  you 
good-by  at  once." 

I  tried  to  make  him  understand  there  was  no  necessity 
— that  papa  desired  to  hear  nothing,  only  mshed  him  to 
stay  with  us  till  evening.  That  indeed,  looking  as  wretch- 
ed as  he  did,  I  could  not  and  would  not  let  him  go.  But 
in  vain. 

"  I  can  not  stay.  I  can  not  be  a  hypocrite.  Do  not  ask 
it.     Let  me  go — oh !  my  child,  let  me  go." 

And  he  might  have  gone — being  very  obstinate,  and  not 
in  the  least  able  to  see  what  is  good  for  him  or  for  me 
either — ^had  it  not  fortunately  happened  that,  overpowered 
with  the  excitement  of  the  last  ten  minutes,  my  sniall 
strength  gave  way.  I  felt  myself  falling — tried  to  save 
myself  by  catching  hold  of  Max's  arm,  and  fell.  When  I 
awoke,  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  papa  and  Mrs.  Gran- 
ton  beside  me. 

Also  Max — though  I  did  not  at  first  see  him.  He  had 
taken  his  rights,  or  they  had  been  tacitly  yielded  to  him ; 
I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  my  head  was  on  my  be- 
trothed husband's  breast. 

So  he  staid.  IsTobody  asked  any  questions  and  he  him- 
self explained  nothing.  He  only  sat  by  me,  all  afternoon, 
taking  care  of  me,  watching  me  with  his  eyes  of  love — the 
love  that  is  to  last  me  my  whole  life.     I  know  it  will. 

Therefore,  in  the  evening,  it  was  I  who  was  the  first  to 
say,  "  Kow,  Max,  you  must  go." 

"  You  are  quite  better  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  almost  dark — it  will  be  very  dark  across 
the  moors.     You  must  go." 

L  2 


250  A    LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE. 

He  rose,  and  sliook  hands  mechanically  Avith  papa  and 
Mrs.  Grauton.  He  was  going  to  do  the  same  by  me,  but 
I  loosed  my  hands  and  clasped  them  romid  his  neck.  I  did 
not  care  for  ^rhat  any  body  might  say  or  think ;  he  was 
mine  and  I  was  his — they  were  all  welcome  to  know  it. 
And  I  wished  him  to  know  and  feel  that,  through  every 
thing,  and  in  spite  of  every  thing,  I — his  own — loved  him 
and  would  love  him  to  the  last. 

So  he  went  away. 

That  is  more  than  a  week  ago,  and  I  have  had  no  letter ; 
but  he  did  not  say  he  would  write.  He  would  rather 
come,  I  think.  Thus,  any  moment  I  may  hear  his  ring  at 
the  door. 

They — papa  and  Penelope — think  I  take  things  quietly. 
Penelope,  indeed,  hardly  believes  I  care  for  him  at  all. 
But  they  do  not  know ;  oh.  Max,  they  do  not  know !  You 
know,  or  you  will  know,  some  day. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HIS    STOEY. 


My  dear  Theodora,  I  trust  you  may  never  read  this  let- 
ter, which,  as  a  preventive  measure,  I  am  about  to  write ; 
I  trust  we  may  burn  it  together,  and  that  I  may  tell  you 
its  contents  at  accidental  times,  after  the  one  principal  fact 
has  been  communicated. 

I  mean  to  communicate  it  face  to  face,  by  word  of  mouth. 
It  will  not  seem  so  awful  then ;  and  I  shall  see  the  expres- 
sion of  your  countenance  qji  first  hearing  it.  That  will 
guide  me  as  to  my  own  conduct,  and  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  it  had  best  be  broken  to  your  father.  I  have  hope 
at  times,  that,  even  after  such  a  communication,  his  regard 
for  me  will  not  altogether  fail ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  j^res- 
ent  opinions  will  not  be  invincible.  He  may  suggest  some 
atonement,  some  probation,  however  long  or  painful  I  care 
not,  so  that  it  ends  in  his  giving  me  you. 

But  first  I  ought  to  furnish  him  with  full  information 
about  things  into  which  I  have  never  yet  dared  to  inquire. 
I  shall  do  so  to-morrow.  Much,  therefore,  depends  upon 
to-morrow.  Such  a  crisis  almost  unnerves  me ;  add  to  that 
the  very  sight  of  this  place ;  and  I  went  by  chance  to  the 
same  inn,  the  White  Hart,  Salisbury.  When  you  have 
read  this  letter  through,  you  will  not  wonder  that  this  is 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  251 

a  terrible  niglit  for  me.  I  never  would  have  revisited  this 
town,  but  in  the  hope  of  learning  every  particular,  so  as  to 
tell  you  and  your  father  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth. 

He  will  assuredly  pity  me.  The  thought  of  his  own 
boy,  your  brother,  whom  you  once  mentioned,  and  who 
Mr.  Johnston  informed  me  "  died  young"  after  some  great 
dereliction — this  thought  may  make  him  deal  gently  with 
me.  Whether  he  will  ever  forgive  me,  or  receive  me  into 
his  family,  remains  doubtful.  It  is  with  the  fear  of  this,  or 
any  other  possibility  which  I  can  not  now  foresee,  that  I 
write  this  letter,  in  order  that,  whatever  happens,  my  Theo- 
dora may  be  acquainted  with  my  whole  history. 

My  Theodora!  Some  day,  when  she  comes  to  read  a 
few  pages  which  I  seal  up  to-night,  marking  them  with 
her  name,  and  "  To  be  delivered  to  her  after  my  death," 
she  will  understand  how  I  have  loved  her.  Otherwise,  it 
never  could  have  been  found  out,  even  by  her — for  I  am 
not  a  demonstrative  man.  Only  my  wife  would  have 
known  it. 

In  case  this  letter,  and  those  other  letters,  do  reach  you, 
they  will  then  be  your  last  mementos  of  me.  Read  them 
and  burn  them ;  they  are  solely  meant  for  you. 

Should  all  go  well,  so  that  they  become  needless,  we  will, 
as  I  said,  burn  them  together,  read  or  unread,  as  you  choose. 
You  shall  do  it  with  your  own  hand,  sitting  by  me,  at  our 
own  fireside.  Our  fireside.  The  thought  of  it — the  ter- 
ror of  losing  it,  makes  me  almost  powerless  to  write  on. 
Will  you  ever  find  out  how  I  love  you,  my  love — my  love ! 

I  begin  by  remmding  you  that  I  have  been  long  aware 
your  name  is  not  properly  Johnston.  You  told  me  your- 
self that  the  t  had  been  inserted  of  late  years.  That  you 
are  not  an  aristocratic,  but  a  plebeian  family.  My  thankful- 
ness at  learning  this,  you  will  understand  afterward. 

That  cathedral  clock — ^how  it  has  startled  me !  Striking 
twelve  with  the  same  tongue  as  it  did  twenty  years  ago. 
Were  I  superstitious,  I  might  fancy  I  heard  in  the  coffee- 
room  below  the  clink  of  glasses,  the  tune  of  "Glorious 
Apollo,"  and  the  "Bravo"  of  that  uproarious  voice. 

The  town  is  hardly  the  least  altered.  Except  that  I 
came  in  by  railway  instead  of  by  coach,  it  might  be  the 
very  same  Salisbury  on  that  very  same  winter's  night — the 
quaint,  quiet  English  town  that  I  stood  looking  at  from, 
this  same  window — its  streets  shining  Avith  rain,  and  its 
lights   glimmering  here   and   there  through   the   general 


252  A    LIFJi:    FOIl    A    LIFE. 

gloom.  How  I  stared,  boy-like,  till  lie  came  behind  and 
slapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  But  I  have  a  few  thiugs  to 
tell  you  before  I  tell  you  the  history  of  that  night.  Let  me 
delay  it  as  long  as  I  can.    . 

You  know  about  my  father  and  mother,  and  how  they 
both  died  when  Dallas  and  I  were  children.  We  had  no 
near  kindred ;  we  had  to  take  care  of  ourselves — or,  rath- 
er, he  took  cai'e  of  me  ;  he  was  almost  as  good  as  a  father 
to  me,  from  the  time  he  was  twelve  years  old. 

Let  me  say  a  word  or  two  more  about  my  brother  Dal- 
las. If  ever  there  was  a  perfect  character  on  this  earth, 
he  was  one.  Every  creature  who  knew  him  thought  the 
same.  I  doubt  not  the  memory  of  him  still  lingers  in  those 
old  cloisters  of  St.  Mary  and  St.  Salvador,  where  he  spent 
eight  years  studying  for  the  ministry.  I  feel  sure  there 
is  not  a  lad  who  was  at  college  with  him — gray-headed  lads 
they  would  be  now,  grave  professors,  or  sober  ministers  of 
the  Kirk,  with  country  manses,  wives,  and  families — not  one 
of  them  but  would  say  as  I  say^  if  you  spoke  to  him  of  Dal- 
las Urquhart. 

Being  five  years  my  elder,  he  had  almost  ended  his  cur- 
riculum when  I  began  mine ;  besides,  we  were  at  difierent 
colleges ;  but  we  went  through  some  sessions  together ;  a 
time  on  which  I  look  back  with  peculiar  tenderness,  as  I 
think  all  boys  do  who  have  studied  at  St,  Andrew's.  You 
English  do  not  altogether  know  us  Scotch.  I  have  seen 
hard-headed,  possibly  hard-hearted  men,  grim  divines,  stern 
military  officers-,  and  selfish  Anglo-Indian  valetudinarians, 
melt  to  the  softness  of  a  boy,  as  they  talked  of  their  boyish 
days  at  St.  Andrew's.   . 

You  never  saw  the  place,  my  little  lady?  You  would 
like  it,  I  know.  To  me,  who  have  not  seen  it  these  twenty 
years,  it  still  seems  like  a  city  in  a  dream.  I  could  lead 
you,  hand-in-hand,  through  every  one  of  its  quiet  old  streets, 
where  you  so  seldom  hear  the  noise  of  either  carriage  or 
cart ;  could  point  out  the  notable  historical  corners,  and  tell 
you  which  professor  lived  in  this  house  and  which  in  that ; 
could  take  you  along  the  Links,  to  the  scene  of  our  cele- 
brated golfing-match,  calling  over  the  names  of  the  princi- 
pal players,  including  his  who  won  it — a  fine  fellow  he  was 
too  !     What  became  of  him,  I  wonder  ? 

Also,  I  could  show  you  the  exact  spot  where  you  get 
the  finest  view  of  the  Abbey  and  St.  Regulus'  Tower,  and 
then  away  back  to  our  lodgings — Dallas's  and  muTc — along 


A   LIFE    FOK    A    LIFE.  253 

tlie  Scores,  where,  of  moonliglit  nights,  the  elder  and  more 
sentimental  of  the  college  lads  would  be  caught  strolling 
with  their  sweethearts — bonnie  lassies  too  they  were  at  St. 
Andrew's — or  we  beheld  them  .in  all  the  glamour  of  our 
teens,  and  fine  havers  we  talked  to  them  along  those 
Scores,  to  the  somid  of  the  sea  below.  I  can  hear  it  now. 
What  a  roar  it  used  to  come  in  with,  on  stormy  nights, 
against  those  rocks  beyond  the  Castle,  where  a  lad  and  his 
tutor  were  once  both  drowned ! 

I  am  forgetting  myself,  and  all  I  had  to  tell  you.  It  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  spoken  of  those  old  days. 

Theodora,  I  should  like  you  some  time  to  go  and  see  St. 
Andrew's.  Go  there,  in  any  case,  and  take  a  look  at  the 
old  place.  You  will  likely  find,  in  St.  Mary's  Cloisters,  on 
the  third  arch  to  the  right  hand  as  you  ^  enter,  my  initials 
and  Dallas's ;  and  if  you  ask,  some  old  janitor  or  hbrarian 
may  still  remember  "  the  two  Urquharts" — that  is,  if  you 
like  to  name  us.  But,  go  if  you  can.  Faithful  heart !  1 
know  you  will  always  care  for  any  thing  that  concerned 
me. 

All  the  happy  days  of  my  life  were  spent  at  St.  Andrew's. 
They  lasted  until  Dallas  fell  ill,  and  had  to  go  abroad  at 
once.  I  was  to  follow,  and  stay  with  him  the  winter, 
missing  thereby  one  session,  for  he  did  not  like  to  part 
with  me.  Perhaps  he  foresaw  his  end,  which  I,  boy-like, 
never  thought  of,  for  I  was  accustomed  to  his  being  always 
delicate ;  perhaps  he  knew  what  a  lad  of  nineteen  might 
turn  out,  left  to  himself. 

I  was  "  left  to  myself,"  in  our  Scotch  interpretation  of 
the  phrase ;  which,  no  doubt,  originated  in  the  stern  Pres- 
byterian belief  of  what  hmiian  nature  is,  abandoned  by 
God.  "Left  to  himself."  Many  a  poor  wretch's  more 
wretched  parents  know  what  that  means. 

How  it  came  about  I  do  not  call  to  mind,  but  I  found 
myself  in  London,  my  own  master,  spending  money  Hke 
dross ;  and  spending  what  was  worse,  my  time,  my  con- 
science, my  innocence.  How  low  I  fell  God  Imows,  for  I 
hardly  know  myself!  Things  which  happened  afterward 
made  me  oblivious  even  of  this  time.  While  it  lasted,  I 
never  once  wrote  to  Dallas. 

A  letter  from  him,  giving  no  special  reason  for  my  join- 
ing him,  but  urging  me  to  come,  and  quickly,  made  me 
recoil  conscience-stricken  from  the  Gehenna  into  which  I 
was  falling.     You  will  find  the  letter — the  last  T  had  from 


254  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

him,  in  this  packet :  read  it,  and  burn  it  with  mine.  Of 
course,  no  one  has  ever  seen  it,  or  will  ever  see  it,  except 
yourself. 

I  started  from  London  immediately,  in  great  restlessness 
and  anguish  of  mind;  for  though  I  had  been  no  worse 
than  my  neighbors,  or  so  bad  as  many  of  them — I  knew 
what  Dallas  was — and  how  his  pure  life,  sanctified,  though 
I  guessed  it  not,  by  the  shadow  of  coming  death,  would 
look  beside  this  evil  life  of  mine.  I  was  very  miserable ; 
and  a  lad  not  used  to  misery  is  then  in  the  quicksands  of 
temptation.  He  is  grateful  to  any  one  who  will  save  him 
from  himself — give  him  a  narcotic  and  let  his  torment 
sleep. 

I  mention  this  only  as  a  fact,  not  an  extenuation.  Though, 
in  some  degree,  Max  Urquhart  the  man  has  long  since 
learned  to  pity  Max  Urquhart  the  boy. 

— Here  I  paused,  to  read  this  over,  and  see  if  I  have  said 
all  I  wished  therein.  The  narrative  seems  clear.  You  will 
perceive  I  try  as  much  as  I  can  to  make  it  a  mere  history 
as  if  of  another  person,  and  thus  far  I  think  I  have  done  so. 
The  rest  I  now  proceed  to  tell  you,  as  cu'cumstantially  and 
calmly  as  I  can. 

But  first,  before  you  learn  any  more  about  me,  let  me, 
bid  you  remember  how  I  loved  you,  how  you  permitted 
me  to  love  you — ^how  you  have  been  mine,  heart  and  eyes 
and  tender  hps,  you  know  you  were  mine.  You  can  not 
alter^  that.  If  I  were  the  veriest  wretch  ahve,  you  once 
saw  in  r^  something  worth  loving,  and  you  did  love  me. 
'Not  after  the  fashion  of  those  lads  and  lassies  who  went 
courting  along  the  Scores  at  St.  Andrew's — but  solemnly 
— deeply — as  those  love  who  expect  one  day  to  be  husband 
and  wife.  Remember  we  were  to  have  been  married, 
Theodora. 

I  found  my  quickest  route  to  Pan  was  by  Southampton 
to  Havre.  But  in  the  dusk  of  the  morning  I  mistook  the 
coach ;  my  luggage  went  direct,  and  I  found  myself,  having 
traveled  some  hours,  on  the  road — not  to  Southampton, 
but  to  Sahsbury.  This  was  told  me  after  some  jocularity, 
at  what  he  thought  a  vastly  amusmg  piece  of  "  greenness" 
on  my  part,  by  the  coachman.  That  is,  the  gentleman  who 
drove  the  coach. 

He  soon  took  care  to  let  me  know  he  was  a  gentleman — 
and  that,  like  many  young  men  of  rank  and  fashion  at  that 
time,  he  was  acting  Jehu  only  "  for  a  spree."     He  talked 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  255 

SO  large,  I  should  have  taken  hiin  for  a  nobleman,  or  a  bar- 
onet at  least — had  he  not  accidentally  told  me  his  name ; 
though  he  explained  that  it  was  not  as  humble  as  it  seemed, 
and  expatiated  much  upon  the  antiquity,  wealth,  and  aris- 
tocratic connections  of  his  "family." 

His  conversation,  though  loud  and  coarse,  was  amusing, 
and  he  patronized  me  extremely. 

I  would  rather  not  say  a  v/ord  more  than  is  necessary 
concerning  this  person ;  he  is  dead.  As  before  stated,  I 
never  knew  any  thing  of  him  exceptmg  his  name,  which 
you  shall  have  by-and-by,  but  I  guessed  that  his  life  had 
not  been  a  creditable  one.  He  looked  about"  thirty,  or  a 
little  older. 

When  the  coach  stopped — at  the  very  inn  where  I  am 
now  writing,  the  White  Hart,  Sahsbury — he  insisted  on 
my  stopping  too,  as  it  was  a  bitter  cold  night,  and  the 
moon  would  not  rise  till  two  in  the  mornuig.  He  said 
that,  I  mind  well. 

Finally  he  let  the  coach  go  on  without  us,  and  I  heard 
him  laying  a  bet  to  drive  across  Salisbury  Plain  in  a  gig  or 
dog-cart,  and  meet  it  again  on  the  road  to  Devizes  by  day- 
break next  morning.  The  landlord  laughed,  and  advised 
him  to  give  up  such  a  mad  " neck-or-nothing"  freak;  but 
he  swore,  and  said  he  always  went  at  every  thing  "  neck- 
or-nothing." 

I  can  remember  to  this  day  nearly  every  w^ord  he  ut- 
tered, and  his  manner  of  saying  it.  Under  any  circum- 
stances this  might  have  been  the  case,  for  he  attracted  me, 
bad  as  I  felt  him  to  be,  with  his  bold,  devil-may-care  jollity, 
mixed  with  a  certain  English  frankness  not  unpleasant. 
He  was  a  small,  dark  man,  hollow-eyed  and  dissipated 
looking.     His  face — no,  better  not  call  up  his  face. 

I  was  persuaded  to  stay  and  drink  with  this  man  and 
one  or  two  others,  regular  topers,  as  I  soon  found  he  was. 
He  appeared  poor  too ;  the  drinking  was  to  be  at  my  ex- 
pense. I  was  very  proud  to  have  the  honor  of  entertain- 
ing such  a  clever  and  agreeable  gentleman. 

"Once,  watching  him  and  listening  to  his  conversation, 
sudden  doubts  seized  me  of  what  Dallas  would  think  of 
my  new  acquaintance,  and  what  he  would  say,  or  look — ^he 
seldom  reproved  aloud — were  he  to  walk  in  and  find  me  in 
the  present  company.  And  supper  being  done,  I  tried  to 
get  away,  but  this  man  held  me  by  the  shoulders,  mocking 
me,  and  setting  the  rest  on  to  mock  me  as  a  "  milksop." 


256  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

The  good  angel  fled.  From  that  moment,  I  believe,  the 
devil  entered  both  into  him  and  me. 

I  got  drunk.  It  was  for  the  first  time  in  my.  life,  though 
more  than  once  lately  I  had  been  "  merry,"  but  stopped  at 
that  stage.  This  time  I  stopped  at  nothing.  My  blood 
was  at  boiling  heat,  with  just  enough  of  conscience  left  to 
make  me  snatch  at  any  means  to  deaden  it. 

Of  the  details  of  that  orgie,  or  of  those  who  joined  in  it, 
except  this  one  person,  I  have,  as  was  likely,  no  distinct 
recollection.  They  were  habitual  drinkers ;  none  of  them 
had  any  pity  for  me,  and  I — I  was  utterly  "  left  to  myself," 
as  I  have  said.  A  raw,  shy,  Scotch  lad,  I  soon  became  the 
butt  of  the  company. 

The  last  thing  I  remember  is  their  trying  to  force  me  to 
tell  my  name,  which  hitherto  I  had  not  done,  first  from  nat- 
m-al  reserve  among  strangers,  and  then  from  an  instinctive 
feeling  that  I  was  not  in  the  most  creditable  of  society, 
and  therefore  the  less  I  said  about  myself  the  better.  All 
I  had  told  was,  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  France  to  join  my 
brother,  who  was  ill.  They  could  not  get  any  more  out 
of  me  than  that.  A  few  taunts,  which  some  English  peo- 
ple are  rather  too  ready  to  use  against  us  Scotch,  made  me 
savage  as  well  as  sullen.  I  might  have  deserved  it,  or  not 
— ^I  can  not  tell — but  the  end  was,  they  turned  me  out — 
the  obstinate,  drunken,  infuriated  lad — into  the  street. 

I  staggered  through  the  dark,  silent  town  into  a  lane, 
and  fell  asleep  on  the  road-side. 

The  next  thing  I  call  to  mind  is  being  awakened  by  the 
cut  of  a  whip  across  my  shoulders,  and  seeing  a  man  stand- 
ing over  me.  I  flew  at  his  throat  like  a  wild  creature,  for 
it  was  he — the  "  gentleman"  who  had  made  me  drunk  and 
mocked  me,  and  whom  I  seemed  then  and  there  to  hate 
with  a  fury  of  hatred  that  would  last  to  my  dying  day. 
Through  it  all  came  the  thought  of  Dallas,  sick  and  solita- 
ry, half  way  toward  whom  I  ought  to  have  traveled  by 
now. 

How  he — the  man — soothed  me  I  do  not  know,  but 
think  it  was  by  offering  to  take  me  toward  Dallas.  He 
had  a  horse  and  gig  standing  by,  and  said  if  I  would 
mount  he  would  drive  me  to  the  coast,  Avhence  I  could  take 
boat  to  France.  At  least,  that  is, the  vague  impression  my 
mind  retains  of  what  passed  between  us.  He  helped  me 
up  beside  him  and  I  dozed  off  to  sleep  again. 

My  next  Avakening  w^as  in  the  middle  of  a  desolate  plain. 


A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE.  257 

I  rubbed  my  eyes,  but  saw  notliing  except  stars  and  sky, 
and  this  black,  black  plain,  which  seemed  to  have  no  end. 

He  pulled  up,  and  told  me  to  "tumble  out,"  which  I  did 
mechanically.  On  the  other  side  of  the  gig  was  something 
tall  and  dark,  which  I  took  at  first  for  a  half-way  inn,  but 
perceived  it  was  only  a  huge  stone — a  circle  of  stones. 

"HaUoo!  what's  this?" 

"  Stonehenge — comfortable  lodging  for  man  and  beast — 
so  you're  all  right.  Good-by,  young  fellow ;  you're  such 
dull  company  that  I  mean  to  leave  you  here  till  morn- 
ing." *■ 

This  was  what  he  said  to  me,  laughing  uproariously.  At 
first  I  thought  he  was  in  jest,  and  laughed  too ;  then,  being 
sleepy  and  maudlin,  I  remonstrated;  lastly,  I  got  half- 
frightened,  for  when  I  tried  to  mount  he  pushed  me  down. 
I  was  so  helpless  and  he  so  strong ;  from  this  solitary  place, 
miles  and  miles  from  any  human  dwelling,  how  should  I 
get  on  to  Dallas  ? — Dallas^  who,  stupefied  as  I  was,  still  re- 
mained my  prominent  thought. 

I  begged,  as  if  I  had  been  begging  for  my  life,  that  he 
would  keep  his  promise,  and  take  me  on  my  way  toward 
my  brother. 

"  To  the  devil  with  your  brother !"  and  he  whipped  his 
horse  on. 

The  devil  was  in  me,  as  I  said.  I  sprang  at  him,  my 
strength  doubled  and  trebled  V\dth  rage,  and  catching  him 
unawares,  dragged  him  from  the  gig,  and  threw  him  vio- 
lently on  the  ground.  His  head  struck  against  one  of  the 
great  stones — and — and — 

]N'ow,  you  see  how  it  was.  I  murdered  him.  He  must 
have  died  easily — ^instantaneously;  he  never  moaned  nor 
stirred  once,  but,  for  all  that,  it  was  murder. 

'Not  with  intent,  God  knows.  So  little  idea  had  I  he 
was  dead,  that  I  shook  him  as  he  lay,  told  him  to  "  get  up 
and  fight  it  out ;"  oh,  my  God !  my  God ! 

Thus  I  have  told  it,  the  secret,  which  until  now  has  nev- 
er been  written  or  spoken  to  any  human  being.  I  was 
then  nineteen — I  am  now  nine-and-thirty ;  twenty  years. 
Theodora,  have  pity ;  only  think  of  carrying  such  a  secret 
— the  blood  of  a  man,  on  one's  conscience  for  twenty  years ! 

If,  instead  of  my  telling  you  all  this,  as  I  may  do  in  a  few 
days,  you  should  have  to  read  it  here,  it  will  by  then  have 
become  an  old  tale.     Still,  pity  me. 

To  continue,  for  it  is  getting  fir  on  into  the  night. 


258  A   LIFE   FOR  A   LIFE. 

The  first  few  minutes  after  I  discovered  what  I  had  done, 
you  will  not  expect  me  to  s^Deak  of. 

I  was  perfectly  sober  now.  I  had  tried  every  means  in 
my  power  to  revive  him ;  and  then  to  ascertain  for  certain 
that  he  was  dead ;  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  had  already  begun 
my  classes  in  medicine,  so  I  knew  a  good  deal.  I  sat  with 
his  head  on  my  knee,  fully  aware  that  I  had  killed  him ; 
that  I  had  taken  the  life  of  a  man,  and  that  his  blood  would 
be  upon  me  forever  and  ever. 

Nothing  short  of  the  great  condemnation  of  the  last 
judgment-day  could  parallel  That  horror  of  despair ;  under 
it  my  reason  seemed  to  give  way.  I  was  seized  with  the 
delusion  that,  bad  and  cruel  man  as  he  was,  he  was  only 
shamming  to  terrify  me.  I  held  him  up  in  my  arms,  so 
that  the  light  of  the  gig-lamps  fell  full  on  his  face. 

It  was  a  dead  face — not  frightful  to  look  at,  beautiful 
rather,  as  the  muscles  slowly  settled — ^but  dead,  quite  dead. 
I  laid  him  down  again,  still  resting  his  head  against  my 
knee,  till  he  gradually  stiffened  and  grew  cold. 

This  was  just  at  moonrise ;  he  had  said  the  moon  would 
rise  at  two  o'clock,  and  so  she  did,  and  struck  her  first  ar- 
rowy ray  across  the  jDlam  upon  his  face — ^that  still  face  with 
its  half-o]Den  mouth  and  eyes. 

I  had  not  been  afraid  of  him  hitherto ;  now  I  was.  It 
was  no  longer  a  man,  but  a  corpse,  and  I  was  the  murderer. 

The  sight  of  the  moon  rising,  is  my  last  recollection  of 
this  night.  Probably,  the  fit  of  insanity,  which  lasted  for 
many  months  after,  at  that  instant  came  on,  and  under  its 
influence  I  must  have  fled,  leaving  him  where  he  lay,  with 
the  gig  standing  by,  and  the  horse  quietly  feeding  beside 
the  great  stones ;  but  I  do  not  recollect  any  thing.  Doubt- 
less, I  had  all  the  cunning  of  madness,  for  I  contrived  to' 
gain  the  coast  and  get  over  to  France ;  but  how,  or  when, 
I  have  not  the  slightest  remembrance  to  this  day. 

As  I  have  told  you,  I  never  saw  Dallas  again.  When  I 
reached  Pau,  he  was  dead  and  buried.  The  particulars  of 
his  death  were  explained  to  me  months  afterward  by  the 
good  cure,  who.  Catholic  as  he  was,  had  learned  to  love 
Dallas  like  a  son,  and  who  watched  over  me  for  his  sake, 
during  the  long  melancholy  mania  which,  as  he  thought, 
resulted  from  the  shock  of  my  brother's  death. 

Some  day  I  should  like  you,  if  possible,  to  see  the  spot 
where  Dallas  is  buried — the  church-yard  of  Bilheres  near 
Pau ;  but  his  grave  is  not  within  the  church-yard,  as,  he 


A   LITE   FOR   A   LIFE.  259 

"being  a  Protestant,  the  authorities  would  not  allow  it. 
You  will  find  it  just  outside  the  hedge — the  head-stone 
placed  in  the  hedge — though  the  little  mound  is  by  this 
time  level  with  the  meadow  outside.  You  know,  we  Pres- 
byterians have  not  your  English  feeling  about  "conse- 
crated" ground;  Ave  beheve  that  "the  whole  earth  is  the 
Lord's,"  and  no  human  consecration  can  make  it  holier  than 
it  is,  both  for  the  worship  of  the  living,  and  the  interment 
of  the  dead.  Therefore,  it  does  not  shock  me  that  the  cat- 
tle feed,  and  the  grass  grows  tall,  over  Dallas's  body.  But 
I  should  like  the  head-stone  preserved — as  it  is ;  for  yearly, 
in  diflerent  quarters  of  the  globe,  I  have  received  letters 
from  the  old  cure  and  his  successor,  concerning  it.  You 
are  much  younger  than  I,  Theodora ;  after  my  death  I  leave 
this  charge  to  you.    You  will  fulfill  it  for  my  sake,  I  know. 

Must  I  tell  you  any  more?  Yes,  for  now  comes  what 
some  might  say  was  a  crime  as  heavy  as  the  first  one.  I 
do  not  attempt  to  extenuate  it.  I  can  only  say  that  it  has 
been  expiated — such  as  it  was — ^by  twenty  miserable  years, 
and  that  the  last  expiation  is  even  yet  not  come.  Your  fa- 
ther once  said,  and  his  words  dashed  from  me  the  first  hope 
which  ever  entered  my  mind  concerning  you,  that  he  never 
would  clasp  the  hand  of  a  man  who  had  taken  the  life  of 
another.  What  would  he  say  to  a  man  who  had  taken  a 
life,  and  concealed  the  fact  for  twenty  years.  I  am  that 
man. 

How  it  came  about,  I  will  tell  you. 

For  a  twelvemonth  after  that  night,  I  was,  you  will  re- 
member, not  myself;  in  truth,  a  maniac,  though  a  quiet  and 
harmless  one.  My  insanity  was  of  the  sullen  and  taciturn 
kmd,  so  that  I  betrayed  nothing,  if  indeed  I  had  any  re- 
membrance of  what  had  hajDpened,  which  I  believe  I  had 
not.  The  first  dawn  of  recollection  came  through  reading 
in  an  Enghsh  newspaper,  which  the  okl  cure  brought  to 
amuse  me,  an  account  of  a  man  who  was  hanged  for  mur- 
der. I  read  it  line  by  line — the  trial — the  verdict — the  lat- 
ter days  of  the  criminal — ^rv^ho  was  a  young  lad  like  me — 
and  the  last  day  of  all,  when  he  was  hanged. 

By  degrees,  first  misty  as  a  dream,  then  ghastly  clear, 
impressed  on  my  mind  with  a  tenacity  and  minuteness  all 
but  miraculous,  considering  the  long  blank  which  followed 
— came  out  the  events  of  that  night.  I  became  conscious 
that  I  too  had  killed  a  man,  that  if  any  eye  had  seen  the 
act  I  should  have  been  taken,  tried,  and  hanged  for  murder. 


260  A   LIFE   rOK   A   LIFE. 

Young  as  I  Avas,  and  ignorant  of  English  criminal  law,  I 
had  sufficient  common  sense  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion, 
that,  as  things  stood,  there  was  not  a  fragment  of  evidence 
against  me  individually,  nor,  indeed,  any  clear  evidence  to 
show  that  the  man  was  murdered  at  all.  It  was  now  a 
year  ago — he  must  have  long  since  been  found  and  buried 
— probably  with  little  inquiry ;  they  ivould  conclude  he  had 
been  killed  accidentally,  through  his  own  careless,  drunken 
driving.  But  if  I  once  confessed  and  delivered  myself  up 
to  justice,  I  myself  alone  knew,  and  no  evidence  could  ever 
prove,  that  it  was  not  a  case  of  willful  murder.  I  should 
be  ha^iged — hanged  by  the  neck  till  I  was  dead — and  my 
name,  our  name,  Dallas's  and  mine — blasted  forevermore. 

The  weeks  that  elapsed  after  my  first  recovery  of  reason 
were  such  that,  when  I  hear  preachers  thunder  about  the 
hteral "  worm  that  dieth  not,  and  fire  that  is  never  quench- 
ed," I  could  almost  smile.  Suflicient  are  the  torments  of 
a  spiritual  hell. 

Sometimes,  out  of  its  depths,  I  felt  as  if  Satan  himself  had 
entered  my  soul,  to  rouse  me  into  atheistic  rebehion.  I,  a 
boy  not  twenty  yet,  with  all  my  future  before  me,  to  lose 
it  through  a  moment's  fury  against  a  man  who  must  have 
been  depraved  to  the  core,  a  man  against  whom  I  had  no 
personal  grudge,  of  whom  I  knew  nothing  but  his  name. 
Yet  I  must  surrender  my  life  for  his — ^be  tried,  condemned, 
publicly  disgraced — ^finally  die  the  death  of  a  dog.  I  had 
never  been  a  coward — yet  night  after  night  I  woke,  bathed 
in  a  cold  sweat  of  terror,  feeling  the  rope  round  my  neck, 
and  seeing  the  forty  thousand  upturned  faces — as  in  the 
newspaper  account  of  the  poor  vf retch  who  was  hanged. 

Kemember,  I  plead  nothing.  I  know  there  are  those 
who  would  say  that  the  most  dishonorable  wretch  alive 
was  this  same  man  of  honor — ^this  Max  Urquhart,  who  car- 
ries such  a  fair  reputation ;  that  the  only  thing  I  should 
have  done  was  to  go  back  to  England,  surrender  myself 
to  justice,  and  take  all  the  consequences  of  this  one  act  of 
drunkenness  and  ungovernable  passion.  However,  I  did  it 
not.  But  my  sin — as  every  sin  must — be  sure  has  found 
me  out. 

Theodora,  it  is  hardly  eight  hours  since  your  innocent 
arms  were  round  my  neck,  and  your  kisses  on  my  mouth 
— and  now  !  Well,  it  will  be  over  soon.  However  I  have 
lived,  I  shall  not  die  a  hypocrite. 

I  do  not  attempt  to  retrace  the  course  of  reasoning  by 


A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE.  261 

which  I  persuaded  myself  to  act  as  I  did.  I  was  only  a 
boy ;  this  long  sleep  of  the  mmd  had  re-established  my  bod- 
ily health — life  and  youth  were  strong  within  me ;  also  the 
hope  of  honor,  the  dread  of  shame.  Yet  sometimes  con- 
science struggled  so  fiercely  with  all  these,  that  I  was  half 
tempted  to  a  medium  course,  the  coward's  last  escape — 
suicide. 

You  must  remember,  religion  was  wanting  in  me — and 
Dallas  was  dead.  N'ay,  I  had  for  the  tune  ah-eady  forgot- 
ten him. 

One  day,  when,  driven  distracted  with  my  doubts,  I  had 
almost  made  up  my  mind  to  end  them  in  the  one  sharp, 
easy  way  I  have  spoken  of,  while  putting  my  brother's  pa- 
pers in  order,  I  found  his  Bible.  Underneath  his  name  he 
had  written — and  the  date  was  that  of  the  last  day  of  his 
life — my  name.  I  looked  at  it,  as  we  look  at  a  handvvritmg 
long  familiar,  till  of  a  sudden  we  remember  that  the  hand 
is  cold,  that  no  earthly  power  can  ever  reproduce  of  this 
known  writing  a  single  line.  Child,  did  you  ever  know — 
no,  you  never  could  have  known — that  total  desolation, 
that  helpless  craving  for  the  dead  who  return  no  more  ? 

■  After  I  grew  calmer,  I  did  the  only  thmg  which  seemed 
to  bring  me  a  little  nearer  to  Dallas — I  read  m  his  Bible. 
The  chapter  I  opened  at  was  so  remarkable,  that  at  first  I 
recoiled  as  if  it  had  been  my  brother — he  who,  being  now 
a  spirit,  might,  for  all  I  could  tell,  have  a  spirit's  knowledge 
of  all  things — speaking  to  me  out  of  the  invisible  world. 
The  chapter  was  Ezekiel  x^di.,  and  among  other  verses 
were  these : 

"When  the  wicked  man  tnrneth  away  from  his  wickedness  that  he 
hath  committed,  and  doeth  that  which  is  lawful  and  right,  he  shall  save 
his  soul  alive. 

' '  Because  he  considereth  and  turneth  away  from  all  his  transgressions 
that  he  hath  committed,  he  shall  surely  live ;  he  shall  not  die 

"For  I  have  no  pleasure  in  the  death  of  him  that  dieth,  saith  the 
Lord  God:  wherefore  turn  you:5^elves  and  live  ye." 

I  turned  and  lived.  I  resolved  to  give  a  life — my  own — 
for  the  life  v/hich  I  had  taken ;  to  devote  it  whoUy  to  the 
saving  of  other  lives ;  and  at  its  close,  when  I  had  built  up 
a  goo^l  name,  and  shown  openly  that  after  any  crime  a  man 
might  recover  himself,  repent,  and  atone,  I  meant  to  pay 
the  full  price  of  the  sin  of  my  youth,  and  openly  to  ac- 
knowledge before  the  world.  How  far  I  was  right  or 
wrong  in  this  decision  I  can  not  tell — perhaps  no  human 


262  A    LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE. 

j  udgment  ever  can  tell.  I  simply  state  what  I  then  resolved, 
and  have  never  swerved  from — till  I  saw  you. 

Of  necessity,  with  this  ultimate  confession  ever  before 
me,  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  all  its  closest  ties — friend- 
ship, love,  marriage — were  not  to  be  thought  of  I  set 
them  aside  as  impossible.  To  me,  life  could  never  be  en- 
joyment, but  simply  atonement. 

My  subsequent  history  you  are  acquainted  with — how, 
after  the  needful  term  of  medical  study  in  Britain  (I  chose 
Dublin  as  being  the  place  where  I  was  utterly  a  stranger, 
and  remained  there  till  my  four  years  ended),  I  went  as  an 
army  surgeon  half  over  the  world.  The  first  time  I  ever 
set  foot  in  England  again  was  not  many  weeks  before  I 
saw,  in  the  ball-room  of  the  Cedars,  that  little  sweet  face 
of  yours.  The  same  face  in  which,  two  days  ago,  I  read 
the  look  of  love  which  stirs  a  man's  heart  to  the  very  core. 
In  a  moment  it  obliterated  the  resolutions,  conflicts,  suffer- 
ings, of  twenty  years  and  restored  me  to  a  man's  right  and 
privilege  of  loving,  wooing,  marrying.  Shall  we  ever  be 
married  ? 

By  the  time  you  read  this,  if  ever  you  do  read  it,  that 
question  will  have  been  answered.  It  can  do  you  no  harm 
if  for  one  little  minute  I  think  of  you  as  my  wife ;  no  longer 
friend,  child,  mistress,  but  my,  wife. 

Think  of  all  that  would  have  been  implied  by  that  name. 
Think  of  coming  home,  and  of  all  that  home  would  have 
been — ^however  humble — to  me  who  never  had  a  home  in 
my  whole  life.  Think  of  all  I  would  have  tried  to  make  it 
to  you.  Think  of  sitting  by  my  fireside,  knowing  that  you 
were  the  only  one  required  to  make  it  happy  and  bright ; 
that,  good,  and  pleasant,  and  dear  as  many  others  might 
be — the  only  absolute  necessity  to  each  of  us  was  one  an- 
other. 

Then  the  years  that  would  have  followed,  in  which  we 
never  had  to  say  good-by — in  which  our  two  hearts  would 
daily  lie  open,  clear  and  plain,  never  to  have  a  doubt  or  a 
secret  any  more. 

Then — if  we  should  not  always  be  only  two ! — thmk  of 

you  as  my  wife — the  mother  of  my  children — 

******* 

I  was  unable  to  conclude  this  last  night.  ISTow  I  only 
add  a  line  before  going  into  the  town  to  gain  information 
about — about  this  person ;  by  whom  his  body  was  found, 
and  where  buried;  with  that  intent  I  have  already  been 


A   LIFE    FOE    A    LIFE.  263 

searching  the  cathedral  bnr3dng-groiind,  but  t^iere  are  no 
signs  of  graves  there — all  is  smooth  green  turf,  with  the 
dew  upon  it,  glittering  like  a  sheet  of  diamonds  in  the 
bright  spring  morning. 

It  reminded  me  of  you,  this  being  your  hour  for  rising, 
you  early  bird — you  little  methodical  girl.  You  may  at 
this  moment  be  out  on  the  terrace,  looking  up  to  the  hill- 
top, or  down  toward  your  favorite  cedar-trees,  with  that 
sunshiny  spring  morning  face  of  yours. 

Pray  for  me,  my  love,  my  wife,  my  Theodora. 

*  *  H«*  ♦  ^  * 

I  have  found  his  grave  at  last. 

"J";^  memory/  of  Henry  Johnston^  only  son  of  the  Reverend 
William  Henry  Johnston^  of  Rockmoun%  Surrey^  who  met 
his  death  hy  an  accident  near  this  toion^  and  was  buried  here. 
Born  May  19,  1806.     Died  JSTovemher  19, 1836." 

Farewell,  Theodora. 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

HEK  STOEY. 

Many,  many  weeks — months,  indeed,  have  gone  by  sincp 
I  opened  this  my  journal.  Can  I  bear  the  sight  of  it  evep 
now  ?     Yes,  I  think  I  can. 

I  have  been  sitting  ever  so  long  at  the  open  window,  i» 
my  old  attitude,  elbow  on  the  sill,  only  with  a  difference 
that  seems  to  come  natural  now  when  no  one  is  by.  It  \^ 
such  a  comfort  to  sit  with  my  lips  on  my  ring.  I  asked 
him  to  give  me  a  ring,  and  he  did  so.  Oh,  Max !  Max ! 
Max! 

Great  and  miserable  changes  have  befallen  us,  and  noT^ 
Max  and  I  are  not  going  to  be  married.  Penelope's  mar' 
riage  also  has  been  temporarily  postponed  for  the  same 
reason,  though  I  implored  her  not  to  tell  it  to  Francis,  uu' 
less  he  should  make  very  particular  inquiries,  or  be  exceed- 
ingly angry  at  the  delay.  He  w^as  not.  Nor  did  we  judge 
it  well  to  inform  Lisabel.  Therefore,  papa,  Penelope,  and  I 
keep  our  own  secret. 

Now  that  it  is  over,  the  agony  of  it  smothered  up,  and 
all  at  Rockmount  goes  on  as  heretofore,  I  sometimes  won- 
der do  strangers  or  inmates — Mrs.  Granton,  for  instance — 
fiuspect  any  thing?     Or  is  ours,  awful  as  it  seems,  no  spe- 


204  A   LIFE   rOK    A   LIFE. 

cial  and  peculiar  lot  ?  Many  another  family  may  have  its 
own  lamentable  secret,  the  burden  of  which  each  member 
has  to  bear,  and  carry  in  society  a  cheerful  countenance, 
even  as  this  of  mine. 

Mrs.  Granton  said  yesterday  mine  w^as  "  a  cheerful  coun- 
tenance." If  so,  I  am  glad.  Two  things  only  could  really 
have  broken  my  heart — his  ceasing  to  love  me,  and  his 
changing  so  in  himself^  not  in  his  circumstances,  that  I 
could  no  longer  worthily  love  him.  By  "  him"  I  mean,  of 
course,  Max — Max  XJrquhart,  my  betrothed  husband,  whom 
henceforward  I  can  never  regard  in  any  other  light. 

How  blue  the  hills  are — ^liow  bright  the  moors !  So  they 
ought  to  be,  for  it  is  liear  midsummer.  By  this  day  fort- 
night— Penelope's  marriage-day — we  shall  have  plenty  of 
roses.  All  the  better ;  I  would  not  like  it  to  be  a  dull 
weddmg,  though  so  quiet ;  only  the  Trehernes  and  Mrs. 
Granton  as  guests,  and  me  -for  the  solitary  bridesmaid. 

"  Your  last  appearance,  I  hope,  Dora,  in  that  capacity," 
laughed  the  dear  old  lady.  "  '  Thrice  a  bridesmaid,  ne'er 
a  bride,'  which  couldn't  be  thought  of,  you  know.  ^No 
need  to  speak — I  guess  why  your  wedding  isn't  talked 
about — ^the  old  story,  man's  pride  and  woman's  patience. 
I^ever  mind.  I^obody  knows  any  thing  but  me,  and  I 
shall  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  the  matter.  Least  said  is 
soonest  mended.  All  will  come  right  soon,  when  the  doc- 
tor is  a  little  better  off  in  the  world." 

I  let  her  suppose  so.  It  is  of  little  moment  what  she  or 
any  body  thinks,  so  that  it  is  nothing  ill  of  him. 

"  Thrice  a  bridesmaid,  never  a  bride."  Even  so.  Yet, 
would  I  change  lots  with  our  bride  Penelope  or  any  other 
bride  ?     No. 

IsTow  that  my  mind  has  settled  to  its  usual  level — ^lias 
had  time  to  view  things  calmlj^ — to  satisfy  itself  that  noth- 
ing could  have  been  done  different  from  what  has  been 
done,  I  may  at  last  be  able  to  detail  these  events.  For 
both  Max's  sake  and  my  own,  it  seems  best  to  do  it,  unless 
I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  destroy  my  wdiole  journal. 
An  unfinished  record  is  w^orse  than  none.  During  our  life- 
times we  shall  both  preserve  our  secret;  but  many  a 
chance  brings  dark  things  to  light,  and  I  have  my  Max's 
honor  to  guard  as  well  as  my  own. 

This  afternoon,  papa  being  out  driving,  and  Penelope  gone 
to  town  to  seek  for  a  maid,  whom  the  governor's  lady  will 
require  to  take  out  with  her — they  sail  a  month  hence — I 


A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE.  265 

shall  seize  the  opportunity  to  write  down  what  has  befallen 
Max  and  me. 

My  own  poor  Max !  But  my  lips  are  on  his  ring ;  this 
hand  is  as  safely  kept  for  him  as  when  he  first  held  it  m 
his  breast. 

Let  me  turn  back  a  page  and  see  where  it  was  I  left  off 
writing  my  journal. 

*****  ^  ^ 

I  did  so,  and  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear  at  the  time. 
I  have  had  to  take  another  day  for  this  relation,  and  even 
now  it  is  bitter  enough  to  recall  the  feelings  with  which  I 
put  my  pen  by,  so  long  ago,  waiting  for  Max  to  come  in 
"  at  any  minute." 

I  waited  ten  days ;  not  unhappily,  though  the  last  two 
were  somewhat  anxious,  but  it  was  simply  lest  any  thing 
might  have  gone  wrong  with  him  or  his  affau'S,  As  for 
liis  neglecting  or  "  treating  me  ill,"  as  Penelope  suggested, 
such  a  thought  never  entered  my  head.  How  could  he 
treat  ^me  ill  ? — he  loved  me. 

The  tenth  day,  which  was  the  end  of  the  term  he  had 
named  for  his  journey,  I,  of  course,  fully  expected  him.  I 
knew  if  by  any  human  power  it  could  be  managed,  I  should 
see  him ;  he  never  would  break  his  word.  I  rested  on  his 
love  as  surely  as  in  waking  from  that  long  sick  swoon  I 
had  rested  on  his  breast.  I  knew  he  would  be  tender  over 
me,  and  not  let  me  suffier  one  more  hour's  suspense  -or  pain 
than  he  could  possibly  avoid. 

It  may  here  seem  strange  that  I  had  never  asked  Max 
where  he  was  going,  nor  any  thing  of  the  business  he  was 
going  upon.  Well,  that  was  his  secret,  the  last  secret  that 
was  ever  to  be  between  us ;  so  I  chose  not  to  interfere  with 
it,  but  to  wait  his  time.  Also,  I  did  not  fret  much  about 
it,  whatever  it  was.  He  loved  me.  People  who  have  been 
hungry  for  love,  and  never  had  it  all  their  hves,  can  under- 
stand the  utterly  satisfied  contentment  of  this  one  feeling — 
Max  loved  me. 

At  dusk,  after  staying  in  all  day,  I  went  out,  partly  be- 
cause Penelope  wished  it,  and  partly  for  health's  sake.  I 
never  last  a  chance  of  getting  strong  now.  My  sister  and 
I  walked  along  silently,  each  thinking  of  her  own  affairs, 
when,  at  a  turn  in  the  road  which  led,  not  from  the  camp, 
but  from  the  moorlands,  she  cried  out,  "  I  do  believe  there 
is  Doctor  XJrquhart." 

If  he  had  not  heard  his  name,  I  think  he  would  have 
M 


266  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

passed  us  without  knowing  us.  And  the  face  that  met 
mine,  when  he  looked  iip — ^I  never  shall  forget  it  to  my  dy- 
ing day. 

It  made  me  shrink  back  for  a  minute,  and  then  I  said : 

"  Oh,  Max !  have  you  been  ill  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     Yes — possibly." 

"  When  did  you  come  back  ?" 

*"I  forget — oh!  four  days  ago." 

"  Were  you  coming  to  Rockmount  ?" 

"  Rockmount  ? — oh,  no  !"  He  shuddered,  and  dropped 
my  hand. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart  seems  in  a  very  uncertain  frame  of 
mind,"  said  Penelope,  severely,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
road.     "  We  had  better  leave  him.     Come,  Dora." 

She  carried  me  off  almost  forcibly.  She  was  exceeding- 
ly displeased.  Four  days,  and  nevdl*  to  have  come  or 
Avritten !  She  said  it  was  shghting  me  and  insulting  the 
family. 

"  A  man,  too,  of  whose  antecedents  and  connections  we 
knew  nothing.  He  may  be  a  mere  adventurer — a  penni- 
less Scotch  adventurer.     Francis  always  said  he  was." 

"Francis  is — "  But  I  could  not  stay  to  speak  of  him, 
or  to  reply  to  Penelope's  bitter  words.  All  I  thought  was 
how  to  get  back  to  Max,  and  entreat  him  to  tell  me  what 
had  happened.  He  would  tell  me.  He  loved  me.  So, 
without  any  feeling  of  "  proper  pride,"  as  Penelope  called 
it,  I  writhed  myself  out  of  her  grasp,  ran  back  to  Doctor 
Urquhart,  and  took  possession  of  his  arm — my  arm — which 
I  had  a  right  to. 

"  Is  that  you,  Theodora  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  I."  And  then  I  said  I  wanted  him  to  go 
home  with  me  and  tell  me  what  had  happened. 

"  Better  not ;  better  go  home  with  your  sister." 

"  I  had  rather  stay  here.     I  mean  to  stay  here." 

He  stopped,  took  both  my  hands,  and  forced  a  smile : 
"  You  are  the  determined  little  lady  you  always  were ;  but 
you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  You  had  better 
go  and  leave  me." 

I  was  sure  then  some  great  misery  was  approaching  us. 
I  tried  to  read  it  in  his  face.  "  Do  you — "  did  he  still  love 
me,  I  was  about  to  ask,  but  there  was  no  need.  So  my 
answer,  too,  was  brief  and  plain. 

"  I  never  will  leave  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

Then  I  ran  back  to  Penelope,  and  told  her  I  should  walk 


A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE.  267 

home  with  Doctor  Urquhart ;  he  had  something  to  say  to 
me.  She  tried  anger  and  authority.  Both  failed.  If  we 
had  been  summer  lovers  it  might  have  been  different,  but 
now  in  his  trouble  I  seemed  to  feel  Max's  right  to  me  and 
ray  love,  as  I  had  never  done  before.  Peneloj)e  might  have 
lectured  for  everlasting,  and  I  should  only  have  hstened, 
and  then  gone  back  to  Max's  side,  as  I  did. 

His  arm  pressed  mine  close ;  he  did  not  say  a  second 
time,  "  Leave  me." 

"  i^ow,  Max,  I  want  to  hear." 

^N'o  answer. 

"  You  know  there  is  something,  and  Ave  shall  never  be 
quite  happy  till  it  is  told.  Say  it  outright ;  whatever  it  is, 
I  shall  not  mind." 

'No  answer. 

"  Is  it  something  Very  terrible  ?" 
.  "  Yes." 

"  Something  that  might  come  between  and  part  us  ?" 

"Yes." 

I  trembled,  though  not  much,  having  so  strong  a  belief 
in  the  impossibility  of  parting.  Yet  there  must  have  been 
an  expression  I  hardly  intended  in  the  cry,  "  Oh,  Max,  tell 
me,"  for  he  again  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed  to  forget 
himaelf  in  looking  at  and  thinking  of  me. 

"  Stay,  Theodora — you  have  something  to  tell  me  first. 
Ai'e  you  better?  Have  you  been  growing  stronger  daily? 
You  are  sm-e  ?" 

"  Quite  sure.     E'ow — tell  me." 

He  tried  to  speak  once  or  twice,  vainly.    At  last  he  said, 

"  I — I  wrote  you  a  letter." 

"  I  never  got  it." 

"  No ;  I  did  not  mean  you  should  until  my  death.  But 
my  mind  has  changed.  You  shall  have  it  now.  I  have 
carried  it  about  with  me,  on  the  chance  of  meeting  you, 
these  four  days.  I  wanted  to  give  it  to  you — and — to  look 
at  you.  •  Oh,  my  child,  my  child." 

After  a  little  while,  he  gave  me  the  letter,  begging  me 
not  to  open  it  till  I  was  alone  at  night. 

"  And  if  it  should  shock  you — ^break  your  heart  ?" 

"  Nothing  will  break  my  heart." 

*'  You  are  right,  it  is  too  pure  and  good.  God  will  not 
suffer  it  to  be  broken.     Now,  good-by." 

For  we  had  reached  the  gate  of  Kockmount.  It  had 
never  struck  me  before  that  I  had  to  bjd  him  adieu  here. 


268  A   LIFE    FOE   A   LIFE. 

that  he  did  not  mean  to  go  in  with  me  to  dinner;  and 
when  he  refused,  I  felt  it  very  much.  His  only  answer 
was,  for  the  second  time,  "  that  I  did  not  know  what  I  was 
saying." 

It  was  now  nearly  dark,  and  so  misty  that  I  could  hard- 
ly breathe.  Doctor  Urquhart  insisted  on  my  going  in  im- 
mediately, tied  my  veil  close  under  my  chin,  and  then 
hastily  untied  it. 

"  Love,  do  you  love  me  ?" 

He  has  told  me  afterward,  he  forgot  then,  for  the  time 
being,  every  circumstance  that  was  likely  to  part  us ;  every 
thing  in  the  whole  world  but  me.  And  I  trust  I  was  not 
the  only  one  who  felt  that  it  is  those  alone  who,  loving  as 
we  did,  are  every  thing  to  one  another  who  have  most 
strength  to  part. 

When  I  came  indoors  the  first  person  I  met  was  papa, 
looking  quite  bright  and  pleased ;  and  his  first  question  was, 

"  Where  is  Doctor  Urquhart  ?  Penelope  said  Doctor 
Urquhart  was  coming  here." 

I  hardly  know  what  was  done  during  that  evening,  or 
whether  they  blamed  Max  or  not.  All  my  care  was  how 
best  to  keep  his  secret,  and  literally  to  obey  him  concern- 
ing it. 

Of  course,  I  never  named  his  letter,  nor  made  any  at- 
tempt to  read  it  till  I  had  bidden  good-night  to  them  all, 
and  smiled  at  Penelope's  grumbling  over  my  long  candles 
and  my  large  fire,  "  as  if  I  meant  to  sit  up  all  night."  Yes, 
I  had  taken  all  these  precautions  in  a  quiet,  solemn  kind 
of  way,  for  I  did  not  know  Avhat  was  before  me,  and  I 
must  not  fall  ill  if  I  could  help.  I  was  Max's  own  person- 
al property. 

How  cross  she  was  that  night,  poor  Penelope !  It  was 
the  last  time  she  ever  scolded  me. 

For  some  things,  Peneloj)e  has  felt  this  more  than  any 
^ne  could,  except  papa,  for  she  is  the  only  one  of  us  who 
has  a  clear  recollection  of  Harry. 

jN'ow  his  name  is  written  and  I  can  tell  it — the  awful  se- 
cret I  learned  from  Max's  letter,  which  no  one  except  me 
must  ever  read. 

My  Max  killed  Harry.  'Not  intentionally — when  he  was 
out  of  himself  and  hardly  accountable  for  what  he  did ;  in 
a  passion  of  boyish  fury,  roused  by  great  cruelty  and 
wrong ;  but — ^he  killed  him.  My  brother's  death,  which 
we  believed  to  be  accidental,  was  by  Max's  hand. 


A   LIFE   rOR   A   LIFE.  269 

I  write  this  down  calmly  now,  but  it  was  awful  at  the 
time.  I  think  I  must  have  read  on  mechanically,  expecting 
something  sad,  and  about  Harry  likewise ;  I  soon  guessed 
that  bad  man  at  Salisbury  must  have  been  poor  Harry, 
but  I  never  guessed  any  thing  near  the  truth  till  I  came  to 
the  words  "  I  murdered  him." 

To  suppose  one  feels  a  great  blow  acutely  at  the  instant 
is  a  mistake — ^it  stuns  rather  than  wounds ;  especially  when 
it  comes  in  a  letter,  read  in  quiet  and  alone,  as  I  read  Max's 
letter  that  night.  And — as  I  remember  afterward  seeing 
in  some  book,  and  thmking  how  true  it  was — ^it  is  strange 
how  soon  a  great  misery  grows  familiar.  Waking  up 
from  the  first  few  minutes  of  total  bewilderment,  I  seemed 
to  have  been  aware  all  these  twenty  years  that  my  Max 
killed  Harry. 

O  Harry,  my  brother,  whom  I  never  knew — no  more 
than  any  stranger  in  the  street,  and  the  faint  memory  of 
whom  was  mixed  with  an  indefinite  something  of  Avicked- 
ness,  anguish,  and  disgrace  to  us  all,  if  I  felt  not  as  I  ought, 
then  or  afterward,  forgive  me.  If,  though  your  sister,  I 
thought  less  of  you  dead  than  of  my  living  Max — ^my  poor, 
poor  Max,  who  had  borne  this  awful  burden  for  twenty 
years — Harry,  forgive  me ! 

Well,  I  knew  it — as  an  absolute  fact  and  certainty — 
though  as  one  often  feels- with  great  personal  misfortunes, 
at  first  I  could  not  realize  it.  Gradually  I  became  fully 
conscious  what  an  overwhelming  horror  it  was,  and  what  a 
fearful  retributive  justice  had  fallen  upon  papa  and  us  all. 

For  there  were  some  things  I  had  not  myself  known  till 
this  spring,  when  Penelope,  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart  at 
leaving  us,  talked  to  me  a  good  deal  of  old  childish  days, 
and  especially  about  Harry. 

He  was  a  spoiled  child.  His  father  never  said  him  nay 
in  any  thing — never,  from  the  time  when  he  sat  at  table  in 
his  own  ornamental  chair,  and  drank  Champagne  out  of 
his  own  particular  glass,  lisping  toasts  that  were  the  great 
amusement  of  every  body.  He  never  knew  what  contradic- 
tion was,  till,  at  nineteen,  he  fell  in  love,  and  wanted  to  get 
married,  and- would  have  succeeded,  for  they  eloped  (as  I 
believe  papa  and  Harry's  mother  had  done),  but  papa  had 
prevented  them  in  time.  The  girl,  some  village  lass,  but 
she  might  have  had  a  heart  nevertheless,  broke  it,  and  died. 
Then  Harry  went  all  wroug. 

Penelope  remembers  how,  at  times,  a  shabby,  dissipated 


270  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

man  used  to  meet  us  children  out  walking,  and  kiss  us  and 
the  nursery-maids  all  round,  saying  he  was  our  brother 
Harry.  Also,  how  he  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  papa  coming 
out  of  church,  follow  him  into  his  library,  where,  after  fear- 
ful scenes  of  quarrelmg,  Harry  would  go  away  jaimtily, 
laughing  to  us,  and  bowing  to  mamma,  who  always  show- 
ed liim  out  and  shut  the  door  upon  him  with  a  face  as 
white  as  a  sheet. 

My  sister  also  remembers  papa's  being  suddenly  called 
away  from  home  for  a  day  or  two,  and,  on  his  return,  our 
bemg  all  put  into  mourning,  and  told  that  it  was  for  broth- 
er Harry,  whom  we  must  never  speak  of  any  more.  And 
once,  when  she  was  saying  her  geography  lesson,  and  want- 
ed to  go  and  ask  papa  some  questions  about  Stonehenge  and 
Salisbury,  mamma  stopped  her,  saying  she  must  take  care 
never  to  mention  these  places  to  papa,  for  that  poor  Harry 
— she  called  him  so  now — ^had  died  miserably  by  an  acci- 
dent, and  been  buried  at  Salisbury. 

She  died  the  same  year,  and  soon  afterward  we  came  to 
Rockmount,  living  handsomely  upon  grandfather's  money, 
and  proud  that  we  had  already  begun  to  call  ourselves 
Johnston.  Oh  me,  what  wicked  falsehoods  poor  Harry 
told  about  his  "family."  Him  we  never  again  named; 
not  one  of  our  neighbors  here  ever  knew  that  we  had  a 
brother. 

The  first  shock  over,  hour  after  hour  of  that  long  night 
I  sat  trying  by  any  means  to  recall  him  to  mind,  my  fa- 
ther's son,  my  own  flesh  and  blood — at  least  by  the  half- 
blood — to  pity  him,  to  feel  as  I  ought  concerning  his  death, 
and  the  one  who  caused  it.  But  do  as  I  would,  my  thoughts 
went  back  to  Max — as  they  might  have  done,  even  had  he 
not  been  my  own  Max,  out  of  deep  compassion  for  one  who, 
not  being  a  premeditated  and  hardened  criminal,  had  suf- 
fered for  twenty  years  the  penalty  of  this  single  crime. 

It  was  such,  I  knew.  I  did  not  attempt  to  palliate  it,  or 
justify  him.  Though  poor  Harry  was  worthless,  and  Max 
is— what  he  is — that  did  not  alter  the  question.  I  believe, 
even  then,  I  did  not  disguise  from  myself  the  truth — that 
my  Max  had  committed,  not  a  fault,  but  an  actual  crime. 
But  I  called  him  my  Max  still.  It  was  the  only  word  that 
saved  me,  or  I  might,  as  he  feared,  have  "broken  my  heart." 

The  whole  history  of  that  dreadful  night,  there  is  no  need 
I  should  tell  to  any  human  being ;  even  Max  himself  will 
never  know  it.     God  knows  it,  and  that  is  enough.     By 


A  LIFE  FOE  A  LIFE.  271 

my  own  strength,  I  never  should  have  kept  my  life  or  rear 
son  till  the  morning. 

But  it  was  necessary,  and  it  was  better  far  that  I  should 
have  gone  through  this  anguish  alone,  guided  by  no  outer 
influence,  and  sustained  only  by  that  Strength  which  always 
comes  in  seasons  hke  these. 

I  seem,  while  stretchmg  on  the  rack  of  those  long  night 
hours,  to  have  been  led  by  some  supernatural  instinct  into 
the  utmost  depths  of  human  and  divine  justice,  human  and 
divine  love  in  search  of  the  right.  At  last  I  saw  it,  clung 
to  it,  and  have  found  it  my  rock  of  hope  ever  since. 

When  the  house  below  began  to  stir,  I  put  out  my  can- 
dle, and  stood  watching  the  dawn  creep  over  the  gray 
moorlands,  just  as  on  the  morning  w^hen  we  sat  up  all  night 
with  my  father — Max  and  I.  How  fond  my  father  was  of 
him — my  poor,  poor  father ! 

The  horrible  conflict  and  confusion  of  mind  came  back. 
I  felt  as  if  right  and  wrong  were  inextricably  mixed  to- 
gether, laying  me  under  a  sort  of  moral  paralysis,  out  of 
which  the  only  escape  was  madness.  Then  out  of  the  deeps 
I  cried  unto  Thee,  O  Thou  whose  infinite  justice  includes 
also  infinite  forgiveness ;  and  Thou  heardst  me. 

"  IVlien  the  wicked  man  tumeth  away  from  his  icicTced- 
ness  that  he  hath  comtnitted^  wild  doeth  that  lohich  is  law- 
ful and  rights  he  shall  save  his  soul  alive.'''' 

I  remembered  these  words :  and  unto  Thee  I  trusted  my 
Max's  soul. 

It  was  daylight  now,  and  the  little  birds  began  waking 
up,  one  by  one,  until  they  broke  into  a  perfect  chorus  of 
chirping  and  singing.  I  thought,  was  ever  grief  like  this 
of  mine  ?  Yes — one  grief  would  have  been  worse — if,  this 
sunny  summer  morning,  I  knevv^  he  had  ceased  to  love  me, 
and  I  to  beheve  in  him — ^if  I  had  lost  him — never,  either  in 
this  world  or  the  next,  to  find  him  more. 

After  a  little,  I  thought  if  I  could  only  go  to  sleep,  though 
but  for  half  an  hour,  it  would  be  well.  So  I  undressed  and 
laid  myself  down,  with  Max's  letter  tight  hidden  in  my 
hands. 

Sleep  came;  but  it  ended  in  dreadful  dreams,  out  of 
which  I  awoke,  screaming,  to  see  Penelope  standing  by  my 
bedside,  with  my  breakfast. 

Now,  I  had  already  laid  my  plans — ^to  tell  my  father  all. 
For  he  must  be  told.  No  other  alternative  presented  it- 
self to  me  as  possible — nor,  1  Imew,  would  it  to  Max. 


272  A   LIFE   rOK   A   LIFE. 

When  two  people  are  thoroughly  one,  each  gnesses  in- 
stinctively the  other's  mind ;  in  most  things,  always  in  all 
great  things,  for  one  faith  and  love  includes  also  one  sense 
of  right.  I  was  as  sure  as  I  was  of  my  existence  that  Max 
meant  my  fatherr  to  be  told.  Not  even  to  make  me  happy 
would  he  have  deceived  me — and  not  even  that  we  might 
be  married,  would  be  consent  that  we  should  deceive  my 
father. 

Thus,  that  my  father  must  be  told,  and  that  I  must  tell 
him,  was  a  matter  settled  and  clear — but  I  never  considered 
about  how  far  must  be  explained  to  any  one  else,  till  I  saw 
Penelope  stand  there  with  her  familiar  household  face,  half 
cross,  half  alarmed. 

"  Why,  child,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  Here  are 
you,  staring  as  if  you  were  out  of  your  senses — and  there 
is  Doctor  tjrquhart,  who  has  been  haunting  the  place  like 
a  ghost  ever  since  daylight.  I  declare,  I'll  send  for  him 
and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"  Don't,  don't,"  I  gasped,  and  all  the  horror  returned— 
vivid  as  daylight  makes  any  new\  anguish.  Penelope 
soothed  me — ^with  the  motherliness  that  had  come  over 
her  since  I  was  ill,  and  the  gentleness  that  had  grown  up 
in  her  since  she  had  been  happy,  and  Francis  lovmg.  My 
miserable  heart  yearned  to  her,  a  woman  like  myself — a 
good  woman,  too,  though  I  did  not  appreciate  her  once, 
when  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  had  never  known  care,, 
as  she  had.  How  it  came  out  I  can  not  tell — I  have  never 
regretted  it — ^nor  did  Max,  for  I  think  it  saved  my  heart 
from  breaking — ^but  I  then  and  there  told  my  sister  Penel- 
ope our  dreadful  story. 

I  see  her  still,  sitting  on  the  bed,  listening  with  blanched 
face,  gazing,  not  at  me,  but  at  the  opposite  wall.  She 
made  no  outcry  of  grief  or  horror  against  Max.  She  took 
all  in  a  subdued,  quiet  way,  which  I  had  not  expected 
would  have  been  Penelope's  way  of  bearing  a  great  grief. 
She  hardly  said  any  thing,  till  I  cried  with  a  bitter  cry : 

"  Now  I  want  Max.  Let  me  rise  and  go  down,  for  I 
must  see  Max." 

Then  we  two  women  looked  at  one  another  pitifully,  and 
my  sister — ^my  happy  sister,  who  was  to  be  married  in  a 
fortnight — took  me  in  her  arms,  sobbing, 

"  Oh,  Dora — my  poor,  poor  child." 

All  this  seems  years  upon  years  ago,  and  I  can  relate  it 
calmly  enough  till  I  call  to  mind  that  sob  of  Penelope's. 


A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE.  273 

Well,  what  happened  next  ?  I  remember  Penelope  came 
in  when  I  was  dressmg,  and  told  me,  in  her  ordinary  man- 
ner, that  papa  wished  her  to  drive  with  him  to  the  Cedars 
this  morning. 

"Shall  I  go,  Dora?" 

"Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  see  hhn  in  om-  absence." 

"  I  intend  so." 

She  tm^ned,  then  came  back  and  kissed  me.  I  suppose 
she  thought  this  meeting  between  Max  and  me  w^ould  be 
an  eternal  farewell. 

The  carriage  had  scarcely  driven  off,  when  I  received  a 
message  that  Doctor  Urquhart  was  in  the  parlor. 

Harry  —  Harry,  twenty  years  dead — my  own  brother 
killed  by  my  husband !  Let  me  acknowledge.  Had  I 
known  this  before  he  was  my  betrothed  husband,  chosen 
o]3en-eyed,  with  all  my  judgment,  my  conscience-,  and  my 
soul,  loved,  not  merely  because  he  loved  me,  but  because  I 
loved  him,  honored  him,  and  trusted  him,  so  that  even 
marriage  could  scarcely  make  us  more  entirely  one  than 
we  were  already — had  I  been  aware  of  this  before,  I  might 
not,  indeed  I  think  I  never  should  have  loved  him.  Nature 
would  have  mstinctively  prevented  me.  But  now  it  was 
too  late.  I  loved  him,  and  I  could  not  unlove  him ;  nature 
herself  forbade  the  sacrifice.  It  would  have  been  like  tear- 
ing my  heart  out  of  my  bosom ;  Jie  was  half  myself,  and, 
maimed  of  him,  I  should  never  have  been  my  right  self 
afterward.  ^N'or  would  he.  Two  living  lives  to  be  blasted 
for  one  that  was  taken  unwittingly  twenty  years  ago ! 
Could  it — ought  it  to  be  so  ? 

The  rest  of  the  world  are  free  to  be  their  own  judges  in 
the  matter,  but  God  and  my  conscience  are  mine. 

I  went  down  stairs  steadfastly,  with  my  mind  all  clear. 
Even  to  the  last  minute,  with  my  hand  on  the  parlor  door, 
my  heart — where  all  throbs  of  happy  love  seemed  to  have 
been  long,  long  forgotten — my  still  heart  prayed. 

Max  was  standing  by  the  fire ;  he  turned  round.  He 
and  the  whole  sunshiny  room  swam  before  my  eyes  for  an 
instant— then  I  called  up  my  strength  and  touched  him. 
He  was  trembling  all  over. 

"  3Iax,  sit  down."     He  sat  down. 

I  knelt  by  him.  I  clasped  his  hands  close,  but  still  he 
sat  as  if  he  had  been  a  stone.     At  last  he  muttered, 

"  I  wanted  to  see  vou  just  once  more,  to  know  how  you 
M2 


274  A   LIFE    FOE   A   LIFE. 

bore  it — to  be  sure  I  had  not  killed  you  also — oh,  it  is  hor- 
rible! homble!" 

I  said  it  was  horrible,  but  that  we  would  be  able  to  bear 
it. 

"Wer 

"  Yes— we." 

"You  can  not  mean  that  .^" 

"  I  do.     I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  do." 

Holding  me  at  arm's  length,  his  eyes  questioned  my  in- 
most soul. 

"Tell  me  the  truth.  It  is  not  pity — ^not  merely  pity, 
Theodora?" 

"Ah!  no,  no." 

Without  another  word  the  first  crisis  was  passed — every 
thing  which  made  our  misery  a  divided  misery.  He  opened 
his  arms  and  took  me  once  more  into  my  own  place,  where 
alone  I  ever  really  rested,  or  wish  to  rest  until  I  die. 

Max  had  been  very  ill,  he  told  me,  for  days,  and  now 
seemed  both  in  body  and  mind  as  feeble  as  a  child.  For 
me,  my  childishness  or  girlishness,  with  its  ignorance  and 
weakness,  was  gone  forevermore. 

I  have  thought  since  that  in  all  women's  deepest  loves, 
be  they  ever  so  full  of  reverence,  there  enters  sometimes 
much  of  the  motherly  element,  even  as  on  this  day  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  somehow  or  other  in  charge  of  Max,  and  a 
great  deal  older  than  he.  I  fetched  a  glass  of  water  and 
made  him  drink  it — ^ba^ed  his  poor  temples  and  wiped 
them  with  my  handkerchief — persuaded  him  to  lean  back 
quietly  and  not  speak  another  word  for  ever  so  long.  But 
more  than  once,  and  while  his  head  lay  on  my  shoulder,  I 
thought  of  his  mother— my  mother  who  might  have  been — 
and  how,  though  she  had  left  him  so  many  years,  she  must, 
if  she  knew  of  all  he  had  suffered,  be  glad  to  knoAv  there 
was  at  last  one  woman  Avho  would,  did  heaven  permit, 
watch  over  him  through  life  with  the  double  love  of  both 
wife  and  mother,  and  who,  in  any  case,  would  be  faithful 
to  him  till  death. 

Faithful  till  death.  Yes,  I  here  renewed  that  vow,  and 
had  Harry  himself  come  and  stood  before  me  I  should 
have  done  the  same.  Look  you,  any  one  who,  after  my 
death,  may  read  this,  there  are  two  kinds  of  love :  one, 
eager  only  to  get  its  desire,  careless  of  all  risks  and  costs, 
in  defiance  almost  of  heaven  and  earth;  the  other,  which 
in  its  most  desperate  longing  has  strength  to  say,  "  If  it  be 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  275 

right  and  for  our  good — if  it  be  according  to  the  will  of 
God."  This  only,  I  think,  is  the  true  and  consecrated  love, 
which  therefore  is  able  to  be  faithful  till  death. 

Max  and  I  never  once  spoke  about  whether  or  not  we 
should  be  married ;  we  left  all  that  in  Higher  hands.  We 
only  felt  we  should  always  be  true  to  one  another,  and 
that,  being  what  we  were,  and  loving  as  we  did,  God  him- 
self could  not  will  that  any  human  will  or  human  justice 
should  put  us  asunder. 

This  being  clear,  we  set  ourselves  to  meet  what  was  be- 
fore us.  I  told  him  poor  Harry's  history,  so  far  as  I  knew 
it  myself;  after w^Ird  we.  began  to  consider  how  best  the 
truth  could  be  broken  to  my  father. 

...And  here  let  me  confess  something  which  Max  has  long 
forgiven,  but  which  I  can  yet  hardly  forgive  myself.  Max 
said,  "  And  when  your  father  is  told,  he  shall  decide  what 
next  is  to  be." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?"  I  cried. 

"  If  he  requires  atonement  he  must  have  it,  even  at  the 
hands  of  the  law." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  struck  me  that,  though  Max 
was  safe  so  long  as  he  made  no  confession,  for  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  Harry's  death  left  no  other  evidence 
against  him,  still,  this  confession,  once  public  (and  it  was, 
for  had  I  not  told  Penelope?),  his  reputation,  liberty,  life 
itself  were  in  the  hands  of  my  sister  and  my  father.  A 
horror  as  of  death  fell  upon  me.  I  clung  to  him  who  was 
my  all  in  this  world,,  dearer  to  me  than  father,  mother, 
brother,  or  sister;  and. I  urged  that  we  should  both,  then 
and  there,  fly — escape  together  any  where,  to  the  very  ends 
of  the  earth,  out  of  reach  of  justice  and  my  father. 

I  must  have  been  almost  beside  myself  before  I  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  I  hardly  knew  all  it  implied,  until  Max 
gravely  put  me  from  him. 

"  It  can  not  be  you  who  says  this.     Not  Theodora." 

And  suddenly,  as  unconnected  and  even  incongruous 
things  will  flash  across  one  in  times  like  these,  I  called  to 
mind  the  scene  in  my  favorite  play,  w^hen,  the  alternative 
being  life  or  honor,  the  woman  says  to  her  lover,  "  A^o,  dieP'' 
Little  I  dreamed  of  ever  having  to  say  to  my  Max  almost 
the  same  words. 

I  said  them,  kneehng  by  him,  and  imploring  his  pardon 
for  having  wished  him  to  do  such  a  thing  even  for  his  safe- 
ty and  my  happiness. 


21Q  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

"  We  could  not  have  been  happy,  child,"  he  said,  smooth- 
ing my  hair,  with  a  sad,  fond  smile.  "  Yon  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  have  a  secret  weighing  like  lead  npon  your 
soul.  Mine  feels  lighter  now  than  it  has  done  for  years. 
Let  us  decide ;  what  hour  to-night  shall  I  come  here  and 
tell  your  father?" 

Saying  this,  Max  turned  white  to  the  very  lips,  but  still 
he  comforted  me. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  child.  I  am  not  afraid.  ISTothing 
can  be  worse  than  what  has  been — to  me.  I  was  a  coward 
once,  but  then  I  was  only  a  boy,  hardly  able  to  distinguish 
right  from  wrong.  Now  I  see  that  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  told  the  whole  truth  at  once,  and  taken  all 
the  punishment.  It  might  not  have  been  death,  or  if  it 
were,  I  could  but  have  died." 

"Max,  Max!" 

"  Hush !"  and  he  closed  my  lips  so  that  they  could  not 
moan.  "  The  truth  is  better  than  life,  better  even  than  a 
good  name.  When  your  father  knows  the  truth,  all  else 
will  be  clear.  I  shall  abide  by  his  decision,  whatever  it  be ; 
he  has  a  right  to  it.  Theodora,"  his  voice  faltered,  "  make , 
him  understand  some  day  that  if  I  had  niarried  you  he  nev- 
er should  have  wanted  a  son — your  poor  father." 

These  were  almost  the  last  words  Max  said  on  this,  the 
last  hour  that  we  were  together  by  ourselves.  For  min- 
utes and  minutes  he  held  me  m  his  arms  silently ;  and  I 
shut  my  eyes,  and  felt,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  sunshine  and 
the  flower-scents,  and  the  loud  singing  of  the  two  canaries 
in  Penelope's  green-house.  Then,  with  one  kiss,  he  put  me 
down  softly  from  my  place  and  left  me  alone. 

I  have  been  alon^  ever  since;  God  only  knows  how 
alone. 

The  rest  I  can  not  tell  to-day. 


CHAPTER  XXYH. 

HIS    STOEY. 

This  is  the  last,  probably,  of  those  "  letters  never  sent," 
which  may  reach  you  one  day ;  when  or  how  we  know  not. 
All  that  is  is  best. 

You  say  you  think  it  advisable  that  there  should  be  an 
accurate  Avritten  record  of  all  that  passed  between  your 


\  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  277 

family  and  myself  on  the  final  day  of  parting,  in  order  that 
no  farther  conduct  of  mine  may  be  misconstrued  or  mis- 
judged. Be  it  so.  My  good  name  is  worth  preserving ; 
for  it  must  never  be  any  disgrace  to  you  that  Max  Urqu- 
hart  loved  you. 

Since  this  record  is  to  be  minute  and  literal,  perhaps  it 
will  be  better  I  should  give  it  impersonally,  as  a  statement 
rather  than  a  letter. 

On  February  9th,  1857,  I  went  to  Rockmount  to  see 
Theodora  Johnston,  for  the  first  time  after  she  was  aware 
that  I  had,  long  ago,  taken  the  life  of  her  half-brother,  Hen- 
ry Johnston,  not  intentionally,  but  in  a  fit  of  drunken  rage. 
I  came,  simply  to  look  at  her  dear  face  once  more,  and  to 
ask  her  in  what  way  her  father  would  best  bear  the  shock 
of  this  confession  of  mine,  before  I  took  the  second  step  of 
surrendering  myself  to  justice,  or  of  making  atonement  in 
any  other  way  that  Mr.  Johnston  might  choose.  To  him 
and  his  family  my  life  was  owed,  and  I  left  them  to. dispose 
of  it  or  of  me  in  -any  manner  they  thought  best. 

With  tliese  intentions  I  went  to  Theodora.  I  knew  her 
well.  I  felt  sure  she  would  pity  me,  that  she  would  not 
refuse  me  her  forgiveness  before  our  eternal  separation; 
that  though  the  blood  upon  my  hands  was  half  her  own, 
she  would  not  judge  me  the  less  justly,  or  mercifully,  or 
Christianly.  As  to  a  Christian  woman,  I  came  to  her — as 
I  had  come  once  before,  in  a  question  of  conscience ;  also, 
as  to  the  woman  who  had  been  my  friend,  with  all  the 
rights  and  honors  of  that  name,  before  she  became  to  me 
any  thing  more  and  dearer.  And  I  was  thankful  that  the 
lesser  tie  had  been  included  in  the  greater,  so  that  both 
need  not  be  entirely  swept  away  and  disannulled. 

I  found  not  only  my  friend,  upon  whom,  above  all  others, 
I  could  depend,  but  my  own,  my  love,  the  w^oman  above 
all  women  who  was  mine ;  who,  loving  me  before  this  blow 
fell,  clung  to  me  still,  and,  beheving  that  God  Himself  had 
joined  us  together,  suffered  nothing  to  put  us  asunder. 

How  she  made  me  comprehend  this  I  shall  not  relate,  as 
it  concerns  ourselves  alone.  When,  at  last,  I  knelt  by  her 
and  kissed  her  blessed  hands — my  saint !  and  yet  all  wom- 
an, and  all  my  own — I  felt  that  my  sin  was  covered,  that 
the  All-merciful  had  had  mercy  upon  me.  That  while  all 
these  years  I  had  followed  miserably  my  own  method  of 
atonement,  denying  myself  all  fife's  joys,  and  cloaking  my- 
self with  every  possible  ray  of  righteousness  I  could  find, 


278  A   LIFE    FOK    A  LIFE. 

He  had  suddenly  led  me  by  another  way,  sendmg  me  this 
child's  love,  first  to  comfort  and  then  to  smite  me,  that,  be- 
ing utterly  bruised,  broken,  and  humbled,  I  might  be  made 
whole. 

1^0 w,  for  the  first  time,  I  felt  like  a  man  to  whom  there 
is  a  possibility  of  being  made  whole.  Her  father  might 
hunt  me  to  death,  the  law  might  lay  hold  on  me,  the  fair 
reputation  under  which  I  had  shielded  myself  might  be  torn 
and  scattered  to  the  winds ;  but  for  all  that  I  was  safe,  I 
was  myself,  the  true  Max  Urquhart,  a  grievous  sinner ;  yet 
no  longer  unforgiven  or  hopeless. 

"  I  came  not  to  call  the  righteous^  hut  sinners  to  repent- 
aneeP 

That  line  struck  home.  Oh !  that  I  could  strike  it  home 
to  every  miserable  heart  as  it  went  to  mine.  Oh !  that  I 
could  carry  into  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth  the  mes- 
sage, the  gospel  which  Dallas  believed  in,  the  only  one 
which  has  power  enough  for  the  redemption  of  this  sor- 
rowful world — the  gospel  of  the  forgiveness  and  remission 
of  sins. 

While  she  talked  to  me — this  my  saint,  Theodora — ^Dal- 
las himself  might  have  spoken,  apostle -like,  through  her 
lips.  She  said,  when  I  listened  in  wonder  to  the  clearness 
of  some  of  her  arguments,  that  she  hardly  knew  how  they 
had  come  into  her  mind,  they  seemed  to  come  of  them- 
selves ;  but  they  were  there,  and  she  was  sure  they  were 
true.  She  was  sure,  she  added,  reverently,  that,  if  the> 
Christ  of  N^azareth  were  to  pass  by  Rockmount  door  this 
day,  the  only  Avord  he  would  say  unto  me,  after  all  I  had 
done,  would  be,  "  Thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee — rise  up  and 
walk." 

And  I  did  so.  I  went  out  of  the  house  an  altered  man. 
My  burden  of  years  had  been  lifted  off  me  forever  and  ever. 
I  understood  something  of  what  is  meant  by  being  "  born 
again."  I  could  dimly  guess  at  what  they  must  have  felt 
who  sat  at  the  Divine  feet,  clothed  and  in  their  right  mind, 
or  who,  across  the  sunny  plains  of  Galilee,  leaped,  and  walk- 
ed, and  ran,  praising  God. 

I  crossed  the  moorland,  walking  erect,  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  blue  sky,  my  heart  tender  and  young  as  a  child's.  I 
even  stopped,  childlike,  to  pluck  a  stray  primrose  under  a 
tree  in  a  lane,  which  had  peeped  out,  as  if  it  wished  to  in- 
vestigate how  soon  spring  would  come.  It  seemed  to  me 
so  pretty — I  might  never  have  seen  a  primrose  since  I  was 
a  boy. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE.  279 

Let  me  relate  the  entire  truth. — she  wishes  it.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear,  though  hour  by  hour  brought  nearer  the 
time  when  I  had  fixed  to  be  at  Rockmount,  to  confess  unto 
a  father  that  I  had  been  the  slayer  of  his  only  son — still 
that  day  was  not  an  unhappy  day.  I  spent  it  chiefly  out 
of  doors  on  the  moorlands,  near  a  wayside  public-house, 
where  I  had  lodged  some  nights,  drinking  in  large  draughts 
of  the  beauty  of  this  external  world,  and  feeling  even  outer 
life  sweet,  though  nothing  to  that  renewed  hfe  which  I  now 
should  never  lose  again.  I^ever — even  if  I  had  to  go  next 
day  to  prison  and  trial,  and  stand  before  the  world  a  con- 
victed homicide.  ISTay,  I  believe  I  could  have  mounted  the 
scaffold  amid  those  gaping  thousands  that  were  once  my 
terror,  and  die  peacefully  in  spite  of  them,  feeling  no  longer 
either  guilty  or  afraid. 

So  much  for  myself,  which  will  explam  a  good  deal  that 
followed  in  the  interview  which  I  have  now  to  relate. 

Theodora  had  wished  to  save  me  by  herself  explaining 
all  to  her  father ;  but  I  would  not  allow  this,  and  at  length 
she  yielded.  However,  things  fell  out  differently  from  both 
our  intentions  :  he  learned  it  first  from  his  daughter  Penel- 
ope. The  moment  I  entered  his  study  I  was  certain  Mr. 
Johnston  knew. 

Let  no  sinner,  however  healed,  deceive  himself  that  his 
wound  will  nesv^er  smart  again.  HI  is  not  instantly  made  a 
jiew  man  of,  whole  and  sound ;  he  must  grow  gradually, 
even  through  many  a  returning  pang,  into  health  and  cure. 
If  any  one  thinks  I  could  stand  in  the  presence  of  that  old 
man  w^ithout  an  anguish  sharp  as  death,  which  made  me  for 
the  moment  wish  I  had  never  been  born,  he  is  mistaken. 

But  alleviations  came.  The  first  was  to  see  the  old  man 
sitting  there  alive  and  well,  though  evidently  fully  aware 
of  the  truth,  and  having  been  so  for  some  time,  for  his  coun- 
tenance was  composed,  his  tea  was  placed  beside  hmi  on 
the  table,  and  there  was  an  open  Bible  before  him,  in  which 
he  had  been  reading.  His  voice,  too,  had  nothing  unnat- 
ural or  alarming  in  it,  as,  without  looking  at  me,  he  bade 
the  maid-servant  "  give  Doctor  Urquhart  a  chair,  and  say, 
if  any  one  interrupted,  that  we  were  particularly  engaged." 
So  the  door  was  shut  upon  us,  leaving  us  face  to  face. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  he  raised  his  eyes  to  him.  It 
is  enough,  once  in  a  lifetime,  to  have  borne  such  a  look. 

"Mr.  Johnston" — but  he  shut  his  ears. 

"  Do  not  speak,"  he  said ;  "  what  you  have  come  to  tell 


280  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

me  I  know  already.  My  daughter  told  me  this  morning. 
And  I  have  been  trying  ever  since  to  find  out  what  my 
Clmrch  says  to  the  shedder  of  blood ;  what  she  would  teach 
a  father  to  say  to  the  murderer  of  his  child.  My  Harry, 
my  only  son !     And  you  murdered  him !" 

Let  the  words  which  followed  be  sacred.  If  in  some  de- 
gree they  were  unjust,  and  overstepped  the  truth,  let  me 
not  dare  to  murmur.  I  believe  the  curses  he  heaped  upon 
me  in  his  own  words  and  those  of  the  Holy  Book,  will  not 
come,  for  its  other  and  diviner  words,  which  his  daughter 
taught  me,  stand  as  a  shield  between  me  and  him.  I  re- 
peated them  to  myself  in  my  silence,  and  so  I  was  able  to 
endure. 

When  he  paused  and  commanded  me  to  speak,  I  answer- 
ed only  a  few  words,  namely,  that  I  was  here  to  offer  my 
life  for  his  son's  Hfe;  that  he  might  do  with  me  what  he 
would. 

"  Which  means  that  I  should  give  you  up  to  justice,  have 
you  tried,  condemned,  executed.  You,  Doctor  Urquhart, 
whom  the  world  thinks  so  well  of.  I  might  live  to  see  you 
hanged." 

His  eyes  glared,  his  whole  frame  was  convulsed.  I  en- 
treated him  to  calm  himself,  for  his  own  health's  sake,  and 
the  sake  of  his  children. 

"  Yes^I  will.  Old  as  I  am,  this  shall  not  kill  me.  I  will 
live  to  exact  retribution.  My  boy,  my  poor,  murdered  Har-^ 
ry — ^murdered — murdered." 

He  kept  repeating  and  dwelling  on  the  word,  till  at  length 
I  said : 

"  If  you  know  the  whole  truth,  you  must  be  aware  that 
I  had  no  intention  to  murder  him." 

"  What,  you  extenuate  ?  You  wish  to  escape  ?  But  you 
shall  not.    I  will  have  you  arrested  now,  in  this  very  house." 

"Beit  so,  then." 

And  I  sat  down. 

So,  the  end  had  come.  Life,  and  all  its  hopes,  all  its 
work,  were  over  for  me.  I  saw,  as  in  a  second  of  time,  ev- 
ery thing  that  was  coming — the  trial,  the  conviction,  the 
newspaper  clatter  over  my  name,  my  ill  deeds  exaggerated, 
my  good  deeds  pointed  at  with  the  finger  of  scorn,  which 
perhaps  was  the  keenest  agony  of  all — save  one. 

"Theodora!" 

Whether  I  uttered  her  name,  or  only  thought  it,  I  can 
not  tell.     However,  it  brought  her.     I  felt  she  was  in  the 


A  LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  281 

room,  though  she  stood  by  her  sister's  side,  and  did  not  ap- 
proach me. 

Again,  I  repeat,  let  no  man  say  that  sm  does  not  bring 
its  wages,  Avhich  7nust  be  paid.  Whosoever  doubts  it,  I 
would  he  could  sit  as  I  sat,  watching  the  faces  of  father 
and  daughters,  and  thinking  of  the  dead  face  which  lay 
against  my  knee,  that  midnight,  on  Salisbury  plain. 

"  Children,"  I  heard  Mr.  Johnston  saying,  "  I  have  sent 
for  you  to  be  my  witnesses  in  what  I  am  about  to  do. 
Not  out  of  personal  revenge — which  were  unbecoming  a 
clergyman — but  because  God  and  man  exact  retribution  for 
blood.  There  is  the  man  who  murdered  Harry.  Though 
he  were  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  though  I  esteemed  him 
ever  so  much — which  I  did — still,  discovering  this,  I  must 
have  retribution. 

"  How,  father  ?"     Kot  Jier  voice,  but  her  sister's. 

Let  me  do  full  justice  to  Penelope  Johnston.  Though 
it  was  she  who  told  my  secret  to  her  father,  she  did  it  out 
of  no  malice.  As  I  afterward  learned,  chance  led  their  con- 
versation into  such  a  channel  that  she  could  only  escape 
betraying  the  truth  by  a  direct  lie.  And  with  all  her  harsh- 
nesses, the  prominent  feature  of  her  character  is  its  truth- 
fulness, or  rather  its  abhorrence  of  falsehood.  ISTay,  her 
fierce  scorn  of  any  kind  of  duplicity  is  such,  that  she  con- 
founds the  crime  with  the  cruninal,  and,  once  deceived,  nev- 
er can  forgive — as  in  the  matter  of  Lydia  Cartwright,  my 
acquaintance  with  which  gave  me  this  insight  into  Miss 
Johnston's  peculiarity. 

Thus,  though  it  fell  to  her  lot  to  betray  my  confession,  I 
doubt  not  she  did  so  with  most  literal  accuracy;  acting 
toward  me  neither  as  a  friend  nor  foe,  but  simply  as  a  re- 
later  of  facts.  ]^or  was  there  any  personal  enmity  toward 
me  in  her  question  to  her  father. 

It  startled  him  a  little. 

"  How,  did  you  say  ?  By  the  law,  I  conclude.  There  is 
no  other  way." 

"  And  if  so,  what  will  be  the  result  ?  I  mean  what  will 
be  done  to  him  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell — how  should  I  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  can,  for  I  have  thought  over  and  studied  the 
question  all  day,"  answered  Miss  Johnston,  still  in  the  same 
cold,  clear,  impartial  voice.  "  He  will  be  tried,  of  course. 
I  find  from  your  '  Taylor  on  Evidence,'  father,  that  a  man 
can  b.e  tried  and  convicted,  solely  on  his  own  confession. 


282  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

But  in  this  case,  there  being  no  corroborating  proof,  and 
all  having  happened  so  long  ago,  it  will  scarcely  prove  a 
capital  crime.  I  believe  no  jury  would  give  a  stronger  ver- 
dict than  manslaughter.  He  will  be  imprisoned,  or  trans- 
ported beyond  seas  ;  where,  with  his  good  character,  he 
Avill  soon  work  his  liberty,  and  start  afresh  in  another  coun- 
try, in  spite  of  us.  This,  I  think,  is  the  common-sense  view 
of  the  matter." 

Astonished  as  Mr.  Johnston  looked,  he  made  no  reply. 

His  daughter  continued : 

"  And  for  this  you  and  we  shall  have  the  credit  of  hav- 
ing had  arrested  in  our  own  house  a  man  who  threw  himself 
on  our  mercy ;  who,  though  he  concealed,  never  denied  his 
guilt;  who  never  deceived  us  in  any  way.  The  moment 
he  discovered  the  whole  truth,  dreadful  as  it  was,  he  never 
shirked  it,  nor  hid  it  from  us,  but  told  us  outright,  risking 
all  the  consequences.  A  man,  too,  against  whom,  in  his 
whole  life,  we  can  prove  but  this  one  crime." 

"  What,  do  you  take  his  part  ?" 

"l!»^o,"  she  said;  "I  wish  he  had  died  before  he  set  foot 
in  this  house — ^for  I  remember  Harry.  But  I  see  also  that, 
after  all  this  lapse  of  years,  Harry  is  not  the  only  person 
whom  we  ought  to  remember." 

"  I  remember  nothing  but  the  words  of  this  Book,"  cried 
the  old  man,  letting  his  hand  dro]3  heavily  upon  it.  '"  Who- 
so slieddeth  inaiiUs  blood,  by  man  shall  his  blood  be  shed.'' 
What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself,  murderer  .^" 

All  this  time,  faithful  to  her  promise  to  me,  she  had  not 
interfered— she,  my  love,  who  loved  me;  but  when  she 
heard  him  call  me  that,  she  shivered  all  over,  and  looked  to- 
ward me.  A  pitiful,  entreating  look,  but,  thank  God,  there 
was  no  doubt  in  it — not  the  shadow  of  change.  It  nerved 
me  to  reply  what  I  will  here  record,  by  her  desire  and  for 
her  sake. 

"  Mr.  Johnston,  I  have  this  to  say.  It  is  written, '  Who- 
so hateth  his  brother  is  a  murderer,'  and  in  that  sense  I  am 
one — for  I  did  hate  him  at  the  time — ^but  I  never  meant  to 
kill  him ;  and  the  moment  afterward  I  would  have  given 
my  life  for  his.  If  now  my  death  could  restore  him  to  you, 
alive  again,  how  willingly  I  would  die." 

"  Die,  and  face  your  Maker  ?  an  impardoned  man-slayer, 
a  lost  soul  ?" 

"  Whether  I  live  or  die,"  said  I,  humbly,  "J  trust  my 
soul  is  not  lost.     I  have  been  very  guilty ;  but  I  beligve  in 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  283 

One  who  broiiglit  to  every  sinner  on  earth  the  gospel  of 
repentance  and  remission  of  sins." 

At  this,  burst  out  the  anathema — not  merely  of  the  fa- 
ther, but  the  clergyman — who  mingled  the  Jewish  doctrine 
of  rembutive  vengeance  during  this  hfe  with  the  Christian 
behei  of  rewards  and  punishments  after  death,  and  con- 
founded the  Mosaic  gehenna  with  the  Calvinistic  heU.  I 
wiU  not  record  all  this — it  was  very  terrible  :  but  he  only 
spoke  as  he  believed,  and  as  many  earnest  Christians  do 
believe.  I  think,  in  aU  humihty,  that  the  Master  Himself 
preached  a  different  gospel. 

I  saw  it  shining  out  of  her  eyes — ^my  angel  of  peace  and 
pardon.  O  Thou  from  whom  all  love  comes,  was  it  impious 
if  the  love  of  this  Thy  creature  toward  one  so  wretched 
should  come  to  me  like  an  assurance  of  Thine  ? 

At  length  her  father  ceased  speaking,  took  up  a  pen,  and 
began  hastily  writing.      Miss  Johnston  went  and  looked* 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Papa,  if  that  is  a  warrant  you  are  making  out,  better 
think  twice  about  it,  for,  as  a  magistrate,  you  can  not  re- 
tract. Should  you  send  Doctor  Urquhart  to  trial,  you 
must  be  prepared  for  the  whole  truth  to  come  out.  He 
must  tell  it,  or  if  he  calls  Dora  and  me  as  witnesses — she 
having  already  his  written  confession  in  full — ^oe  must." 

"  You  must  tell— what  ?" 

"The  provocation  Doctor  Urquhart  received;  how  Har- 
ry enticed  him — a  lad  of  nineteen — to  drink,  made  him  mad, 
and  taunted  him.  Every  thing  will  be  made  public ;  how 
Harry  was  so  degraded  that  from  the  hour  of  his  death  we 
wQre  thankful  to  forget  that  he  had  ever  existed ;  how  he 
died  as  he  had  lived,  a  boaster,  a  coward,  sponging  upon 
any  one  from  whom  he  could  get  money,  using  his  talents 
only  to  his  shame,  devoid  of  one  spark  of  honesty,  honor, 
and  generosity.  It  is  shocking  to  have  to  say  this  of  one's 
own  brother ;  but,  father,  you  know  it  is  the  truth,  and  as 
such  it  must  be  told." 

Amazed  I  listened  to  her — ^this  eldest  sister,  who  I  knew 
disliked  me. 

Her  father  seemed  equally  surprised,  until  at  length  her 
arguments  apparently  struck  him  With  uneasiness. 

"  Have  you  any  motive  in  arguing  thus  ?"  said  he,  hur- 
riedly and  not  without  agitation  :  "  why  do  you  do  it,  Pe- 
nelope ?" 

"A  little  on  my  own  account,  th*ough  the  great  scandal 


284  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

and  publicity  will  not  much  affect  Francis  and  me ;  we  shall 
soon  be  out  of  England ;  but  for  the  family's  sake — for 
Harry's  sake — when  all  his  wickednesses  and  our  miseries 
have  been  safely  covered  up  these  twenty  years — consider, 
fother !" 

She  stung  him  deeper  than  she  knew.  I  had  guessed  it 
before,  when  I  was  almost  a  stranger  to  him,  but  now  the 
whole  history  of  that  old  man's  life  was  betrayed  in  one 
groan  which  burst  from  the  very  depth  of  the  father's  soul. 

"  Eli,  the  priest  of  the  Lord — his  sons  made  themselves 
vile,  and  he  restrained  them  not ;  therefore  they  died  in  one 
day,  both  of  them.     It  was  the  will  of  the  Lord." 

The  respectful  silence  which  ensued  no  one  dared  to 
break. ' 

He  broke  it  himself  at  last,  pointing  to  the  door :  "  Go, 
murderer,  or  man-slayer,  or  whatever  you  are !  you  must 
*go  free.  Moreover,  I  must  have  your  promise — no,  your 
oath — that  the  secret  you  have  kept  so  long  you  will  now 
keep  forever." 

"  Sir,"  I  said,  but  he  stopped  me  fiercely. 

"  'No  hesitations — no  explanations — I  will  have  none,  and 
give  none.  As  you  said,  your  life  is  mine,  to  do  with  it  as 
I  choose.  Better  you  should  go  unpunished  than  that  I 
and  mine  should  be  disgraced.     Obey  me.     Promise." 

I  did. 

Thus,  in  another  and  still  stranger  way,  my  resolutions 
were  broken,  my  fate  was  decided  for  me,  and  I  have  to 
keep  this  secret  unconfessed  to  the  end. 

"  Now  go.  Put  half  the  earth  between  us,  if  you  can — 
only  go." 

Again  I  turned  to  obey.  Blind  obedience  seemed  the 
only  duty  left  me.  I  might  even  have  quitted  the  house 
with  a  feeling  of  total  irresponsibility  and  indifference  to 
all  things,  had  it  not  been  for  a  Ioav  cry  which  I  heard  as 
in  a  dream. 

So  did  her  father.  "  Dora — ^I  had  forgotten — there  was 
some  sort  of  fancy  between  you  and  Dora.  Daughter,  bid 
]iim  farewell,  and  let  him  go." 

Then  she  said — my  love  said,  in  her  own  soft,  distinct 
voice — "  IsTo,  papa,  I  never  mean  to  bid  him  farewell — that 
is,  finally — never  as  long  as  I  live." 

Her  father  and  sister  were  both  so  astounded  that  at 
first  they  did  not  interrupt  her,  but  let  her  speak  on. 

"I  belonged  to  Maxbefore  all  this  happened.     If  it  had 


A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE.  285 

happened  a  year  ]^ence,  when  I  was  his  wife,  it  would  not 
have  broken  onr  marriage.  It  ought  not  now.  When 
any  two  people  are  to  one  another  what  we  are,  they  are 
as  good  as  married ;  and  they  have  no  right  to  part,  no 
more  than  man  and  wife  have,  nnless  either  grows  wicked, 
or  both  change.  I  never  mean  to  part  from  Max  Urqii- 
hart." 

She  spoke  meekly,  standing  with  hands  folded  and  head 
drooping,  but  as  still  and  steadfast  as  a  rock.  My  darling 
— my  darling ! 

Steadfast !  She  had  need  to  be.  What  she  bore  dur- 
ing the  next  few  minutes  she  would  not  wish  me  to  repeat, 
I  feel  sure.  She  knows  it,  and  so  do  I.  She  knows  also 
that  every  stab  with  which  I  then  saw  her  wounded  for 
my  sake  is  counted  in  my  heart  as  a  debt,  to  be  paid  one 
day,  if  between  those  who  love  there  can  be  any  debts  at 
all.  She  says  not.  Yet,  if  ever  she  is  my  w^ife —  People 
talk  of  dying  for  a  woman's  sake — but  to  live — ^live  for  her 
vnth  the  whole  of  one's  being — to  work  for  her,  to  sustain 
and  cheer  her,  to  fill  her  daily  existence  with  tenderness 
and  care — ^if  ever  she  is  my  wife,  she  will  find  out  what  I 
mean. 

After  saying  all  he  could  well  say,  Mr.  Johnston  asked 
her  how  she  dared  think  of  me — ^me,  laden  with  her  broth- 
er's blood  and  her  father's  curse. 

She  turned  deadly  pale,  but  never  faltered.  "  The  cm'se 
causeless  shall  not  come,"  she  said,  "for  the  blood  upon 
his  hand — whether  it  were  Harry's  or  a  stranger's  makes 
no  difierence — it  is  washed  out.  He  has  repented  long  ago. 
If  God  has  forgiven  him  and  helped  him  to  be  what  he  is, 
and  lead  the  life  he  has  led  all  these  years,  why  should  I 
not  forgive  him  ?  And  if  I  forgive,  why  not  love  him  ? 
And  if  I  love  him,  vv^hy  break  my  promise,  and  refuse  to 
marry  him  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean,  then,  to  marry  him  ?"  said  her  sister. 

"  Some  day — if  he  wishes  it — yes !" 

From  this  time,  I  myself  hardly  remember  what  passed ; 
I  can  only  see  her  standing  there,  her  sweet  face  white  as 
death,  making  no  moan,  and  answering  nothing  to  any  ac- 
cusations that  were  heaped  upon  her,  excej^t  when  she  was 
commanded  to  give  me  up,  entirely  and  forever  and  ever. 

"  I  can  not,  father.  I  have  no  right  to  do  it.  I  belong 
to  him ;  he  is  my  husband." 

At  last.  Miss  Johnston  said  to  me — rather  gently  than 


286  A    LIFE   FOR   A   LIFF. 

not,  for  her :  "  I  think,  Doctor  Urquhar^,  you  had  better 
go." 

My  love  looked  toward  m  \  and  afterward  at  her  poor 
father ;  she  too  said,  "  Yes,  Max,  go." 

And  then  they  wanted  her  to  promise  she  would  never 
see  me,  nor  write  to  me ;  but  she  refused. 

"  Father,  I  will  not  marry  him  for  ever  so  long,  if  you 
choose — ^but  I  can  not  forsake  him.  I  must  write  to  him. 
I  am  his  very  own,  and  he  has  only  me.  Oh,  papa,  think 
of  yourself  and  my  mother."     And  she  sobbed  at  his  knees. 

He  must  have  thought  of  Harry's  mother,  iiot  hers,  for 
this  exclamation  only  hardened  him. 

Then  Theodora  rose,  and  gave  me  her  little  hand.  "  It 
can  hold  firm,  you  will  find.  You  have  my  promise.  But 
w^hether  or  no,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same.  ^N'o  love 
is  worth  having  that  could  not,  with  or  without  a  promise, 
keep  true  till  death.  You  may  trust  me.  Now,  good-by. 
Good-by,  my  Max." 

With  that  one  clasp  of  the  hand,  that  one  look  into  her 

fond  faithful  eyes,  we  parted.     I  have  never  seen  her  since. 
*  *  *  *  * 

This  statement,  which  is  as  accurate  as  I  can  make  it, 
except  in  the  case  of  those  voluntary  omissions  which  I  be- 
lieve you  yourself  would  have  desired,  I  here  seal  up,  to  be 
delivered  to  you  with  those  other  letters  in  case  I  should 
die  while  you  are  still  Theodora  Johnston. 

I  have  also  made  my  will,  leaving  you  all  my  effects,  and 
appointing  you  my  sole  executrix ;  putting  you,  in  short, 
in  exactly  the  same  position  as  if  you  had  been  my  wife. 
This  is  best,  in  order  that  by  no  chance  should  the  secret 
ooze  out  through  any  guesses  of  any  person  not  connected 
mth  your  family;  also  because  I  think  it  is  what  you 
would  wish  yourself     You  said  truly,  I  have  only  you. 

Another  word,  which  I  do  not  name  in  my  ordinary  let- 
ters, lest  I  might  grieve  you  by  what  may  prove  to  be  only 
a  fancy  of  mine. 

Sometimes,  in  the  hard  Avork  of  this  my  life  here,  I  begin 
to  feel  that  I  am  no  longer  a  young  man,  and  that  the  re- 
action after  the  great  strain,  mental  and  bodily,  of  the  last 
few  months,  has  left  me  not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be.  'Not 
that  I  think  I  am  about  to  die,  far  from  it.  I  have  a  good 
constitution,  which  has  worn  well  yet,  and  may  wear  on  for 
some  time,  though  not  forever,  and  I  am  nearly  fifteen 
years  older  than  you. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  287 

It  is  very  possible  that  before  any  change  can  come,  I 
may  leave  you,  never  a  wife,  and  yet  a  widow.  Possible, 
among  the  numerous  fatalities  of  life,  that  we  may  never 
be  married — never  even  see  one  another  agam. 

Sometimes,  when  I  see  two  young  people  married  and 
happy,  taking  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  scarcely  even 
recognizing  it  as  happiness — just  like  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
herne,  who  hunted  me  out  lately,  and  insisted  on  my  visit- 
ing them — I  think  of  you  and  me,  and  it  seems  very  bitter, 
and  I  look  on  the  future  with  less  faith  than  fear.  It  might 
not  be  so  if  I  could  see  you  now  and  then — ^but  oftentimes 
this  absence  feels  like  death. 

Theodora,  if  I  should  die  before  we  are  married,  with- 
out any  chance  of  writing  down  my  last  words,  take  them 
here. 

iN'o,  they  will  not  come.  I  can  but  crush  my  lips  upon 
this  paper— only  thy  name,  not  thee,  and  call  thee  "my 
love,  my  love !"  Remember,  I  loved  thee — all  my  soul  was 
full  of  the  love  of  thee.  It  made  life  happy,  earth  beauti- 
ful, and  Heaven  nearer.  It  w^as  with  me  day  and  night,  in 
Avork  or  rest — as  much  a  part  of  me  as  the  hand  I  write 
with,  or  the  breath  I  draw.  I  never  thought  of  myself, 
but  of  "  us."  I  never  prayed  but  I  prayed  for  two.  Love, 
my  love,  so  many  miles  away — O  my  God,  why  not  grant 
me  a  little  happiness  before  I  die ! 

Yet,  as  once  I  wrote  before,  and  as  she  says  always  in 
all  things,  Thy  will  he  done. 


CHAPTER  XXYIH. 

HER   STOEY. 

Friday  night. 

Mt  dear  Max, — You  have  had  your  Dominical  letter, 
as  you  call  it,  so  regularly,  that  you  must  know  all  our  do- 
ings at  Rockmount  almost  as  well  as  ourselves.  If  I  write 
foolishly,  and  tell  you  all  sorts  of  trivial  things,  perhaps 
some  of  them  twice  over,  it  is  just  because  there  is  nothing 
else  to  tell.  But,  trivial  or  not,  I  have  a  feeling  that  you 
like  to  hear  it — you  care  for  every  thing  that  concerns  me. 

So,  first,  in  obedience  to  orders,  I  am  quite  well,  even 
though  my  handwriting  is  "  not  so  pretty  as  it  used  to  be." 
Do  not  fancy  the  hand  shakes,  or  is  nervous  or  uncertain. 


288  A    LIFE   FOK    A   LIFE. 

Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  am  never  nervous,  nor  weak  either — 
now.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  being  only  a  woman  after  all,  I 
feel  things  a  little  more  keenly  than  I  ought  to  feel ;  and 
then,  not  being  good  at  concealment,  at  least  not  with  you, 
this  fact  peeps  out  in  my  letters.  For  the  home-life  has  its 
cares,  and  I  feel  very  weary  sometimes — and  then,  I  have 
not  you  to  rest  upon — visibly,  that  is — though  in  my  heart 
I  do  always.  But  I  am  quite  well.  Max,  and  quite  content. 
Do  not  doubt  it.  He  who  has  led  us  through  this  furnace 
of  affliction,  will  lead  us  safely  to  the  end. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  papa  is  every  day  less  and 
less  cold  to  me — poor  papa !  Last  Sunday  he  even  walked 
home  from  church  with  me,  talking  about  general  subjects, 
hke  his  old  self,  almost.  Penelope  has  been  always  good 
and  kind. 

You  ask  if  they  ever  name  you  ?     l^o. 

Life  at  Rockmount  moves  slowly,  even  in  the  midst  of 
marriage  preparations.  PeneloiDC  is  getting  a  large  store 
of  wedding  presents.  Mrs.  Granton  brought  a  beautiful 
one  last  night  from  her  son  Colin. 

I  was  glad  you  had  that  long  friendly  letter  from  Colin 
Granton — glad  also  that,  his  mother  having  let  out  the 
secret  about  you  and  me,  he  was  generous  enough  to  tell 
you  himself  that  other  secret,  which  I  never  told.  Well, 
your  guess  was  right ;  it  was  so.  But  I  could  not  help  it ; 
I  did  not  know  it.  For  me — ^how  could  any  girl,  feeling  as 
I  then  did  toward  you,  feel  any  thing  toward  any  other 
man  but  the  merest  kindhness  ?  That  is  all :  we  wiU  nev- 
er say  another  word  about  it;  except  that  I  wish  you  al- 
ways to  be  specially  kind  to  Colin,  and  to  do  him  good 
whenever  you  can — ^he  was  very  good  to  me. 

Life  at  Rockmount,  as  I  said,  is  dull.  I  rise  sometimes, 
go  through  the  day,  and  go  to  bed  at  night,  wondering 
what  I  have  been  doing  dm^ing  all  these  hours.  And  I  do 
not  always  sleep  soundly  though  so  tired.  Perhaps  it  is 
l^artly  the  idea  of  Penelope's  going  away  so  soon;  far 
away,  across  the  sea,  with  no  one  to  love  her  and  take  care 
of  her,  save  Francis. 

*  Understand,  this  is  not  with  any  pitying  of  my  sister  for 
what  is  a  natural  and  even  a  happy  lot,  which  no  woman 
need  complain  of;  but  simply  because  Francis  is  Francis — 
accustomed  to  think  only  of  himself,  and  for  himself  It 
may  be  different  when  he  is  married. 

He  was  staying  with  us  here  a  week ;  during  which  I 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  289 

noticed  him  more  closely  than  in  his  former  fly-away  visits. 
When  one  hves  in  the  house  with  a  person — a  dull  house, 
too,  hke  ours,  how  wonderfully  odds  and  ends  of  character 
"  crop  out,"  as  the  geologists  say.  Do  you  remember  the 
weeks  when  you  were  almost  continually  in  our  house? 
Francis  had  what  we  used  then  to  call  "the  doctor's 
room."  He  was  pleasant  and  agreeable  enough,  when  it 
pleased  him  to  be  so ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  used  to  say  to 
myself,  twenty  times  a  day,  "  My  dear  Max !" 

This  merely  implies  that  by  a  happy  dispensation  of 
Providence,  I,  Theodora  Johnston,  have  not  the  least  de- 
sire to  appropriate  my  sister's  husband,  or,  indeed,  either 
of  my  sisters'  husbands. 

By-the-by — -in  a  letter  from  Augustus  to  papa,  which 
reached  me  through  Penelope,  he  names  his  visit  to  you. 
I  am  glad — glad  he  should  show  you  such  honor  and  affec- 
tion, and  that  they  all  should  see  it.  Do  not  give  up  the 
Trehernes;  go  there  sometimes — for  my  sake.  There  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  not.  Papa  knows  it;  he  also 
knows  I  wiite  to  you — but  he  never  says  a  word  one  way 
or  other.  We  must  wait — wait  and  hope — or  rather  trust. 
As  you  say,  the  difference  between  young  and  older  people 
is,  the  one  hopes,  the  other  trusts, 

I  seem,  from  your  description,  to  have  a  clear  idea  of  the 
jail,  and  the  long,  barren,  breezy  flat  amid  which  it  lies, 
with  the  sea  in  the  distance,  I  often  sit  and  think  of  the 
view  outside,  and  of  the  dreary  inside,  where  you  spend  so 
many  hours;  the  corridors,  the  exercise  yards,  and  the 
cells ;  also  your  own  two  rooms,  which  you  say  are  almost 
as  silent  and  solitary,  except  when  you  come  m  and  flnd 
my  letter  waiting  you.  I  wish  it  was  me ! — ^pardon  gram- 
mar— ^but  I  wish  it  was  me — this  living  me.  Would  you 
be  glad  to  see  me  ?     Ah !  I  know. 

Look!  I  am  not  going  to  write  about  ourselves — it  is 
not  good  for  us.  We  know  it  all ;  we  know  our  hearts 
are  nigh  breaking  sometimes — mine  is.  But  it  shall  not. 
We  will  Ave  and  wait. 

What  was  I  telling  you  about?  oh,  Francis.  WeU, 
Francis  spent  a  whole  week  at  Rockmount,  by  papa's 
special  desire,  that  they  might  discuss  business  arrange- 
ments, and  that  li^  might  see  a  httle  more  of  his  intended 
son-in-law  than  he  has  done  of  late  years.  Business  was 
soon  dispatched — papa  gives  none  of  us  any  money  during 
his  lifetime ;  what  will  come  to  us  afterward  we  have  never 


290  A    LIFE    YOR   A   LIFE. 

thought  of  inquinng.  Francis  did,  though — which  some- 
what hurt  Penelope — but  he  accounted  for  it  by  his  being 
so  "  poor."  A  relative  phrase ;  why,  I  should  think  £500  a 
year,  certain,  a  mine  of  riches — and  all  to  be  spent  upon 
himself.  But,  as  he  says,  a  single  man  has  so  many  inevi- 
table expenses,  especially  when  he  lives  in  society,  and  is 
the  nephew  of  Sir  William  Treherne,  of  Treherne  Court. 
All  "  circumstances !"  Poor  Francis ;  whatcA'^er  goes 
wrong  he  is  sure  to  put  between  himself  and  blame  the 
shield  of  "  circumstances."  Now,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  would 
fight  the  world  bare-fronted,  anyhow.  One  would  but  be 
killed  at  last. 

Is  it  wrong  of  me  to  write  to  you  so  freely  about  Fran- 
cis ?  I  hope  not.  All  mine  are  yours,  and  yours  mine ; 
you  know  their  faults  and  virtues  as  well  as  I  do,  and  will 
judge  them  equally,  as  we  ought  to  judge  those  who,  what- 
ever they  are,  are  permanently  our  own.  I  have  tried 
hard,  this  time,  to  make  a  real  brother  of  Francis  Charteris ; 
and  he  is,  for  many  things,  exceedingly  likable — ^nay,  lov- 
able. I  see,  sometimes,  clearly  enough,  the  strange  charm 
which  has  made  Penelope  so  fond  of  him  all  these  years. 
Whether,  besides  loving  him,  she  can  trust  him — can  look 
on  his  face  and  feel  that  he  would  not  deceive  her  for  the 
world — can  believe  every  line  he  writes,  and  every  word 
he  utters,  and  know  that  whatever  he  does,  he  will  do 
simply  from  his  sense  of  right,  no  meaner  motive  interfer- 
ing— oh.  Max,  I  would  give  much  to  be  certain  Penelope 
had  this  sort  of  love  for  her  future  husband ! 

Well,  they  have  chosen  their  lot,  and  must  make  the 
best  of  one  another.     Every  body  must,  you  know. 

Heigho !  what  a  homily  I  am  giving  you,  instead  of  this 
week's  history,  as  usual — from  Saturday  to  Saturday. 

The  first  few  days  there  really  was  nothing  to  tell. 
Francis  and  Penelope  took  walks  together,  paid  visits,  or 
sat  in  the  parlor  talking — ^not  banishing  me,  however,  as 
they  used  to  do  when  they  were  young.  On  Wednesday, 
Francis  went  up  to  London  for  the  day,  and  brought  back 
that  important  article,  the  wedding-ring.  He  tried  it  on  at 
supper-time,  with  a  diamond  keej)er,  which  he  said  would 
be  just  the  thing  for  "  the  governor's  lady." 

"  Say  wife  at  once,"  grumbled  I,  and  complained  of  the 
modern  fashion  of  slurring  over  that  word,  the  dearest  and 
sacredest  in  the  language. 

"  Wife,  then,"  whispered  Francis,  holding  the  ring  on 
my  sister's  finger,  and  kissing  it. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  291 

Tears  started  to  Penelope's  eyes ;  in  her  agitation  she 
looked  almost  like  a  girl  again,  I  thought ;  so  infinitely- 
happy.  But 'Francis,  never  happy,  muttered  bitterly  sojie 
regret  for  the  past,  some  wish  that  they  had  been  married 
years  ago.  Why  were  they  not  ?  It  was  partly  his  fault, 
I  am  sure. 

The  day  after  this  he  left,  not  to  return  till  he  comes 
to  take  her  away  finally.  In  the  mean  while  he  will 
have  enough  to  do,  paying  his  adieux  to  his  grand 
friends,  and  his  bills  to  his  tradespeople,  j^rior  to  closing 
his  bachelor  estabhshment  forever  and  aye — how  glad  he 
must  be ! 

He  seemed  glad,  as  if  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  all  was 
settled,  and  no  room  left  for  hesitation.  It  costs  Francis 
such  a  world  of  trouble  to  make  up  his  own  mind — which 
trouble  Penelope  will  save  him  for  the  future.  He  took 
leave  of  her  with  great  tenderness,  calling  her  "  his  good, 
faithful  girl,"  and  vowing — which  one  would  think  was 
quite  unnecessary  under  the  circumstances — to  be  faithful 
to  her  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

That  night,  when  she  came  into  my  room,  Penelope  sat  a 
long  time  on  my  bed  talking ;  chiefly  of  old  days,  when  she 
and  Francis  were  boy  and  girl  together — how  handsome  he 
was,,  and  how  clever — till  she  seemed  almost  to  forget  the 
long  interval  between.  Well,  they  are  both  of  an  age — 
time  runs  equally  with  each ;  she  is  at  least  no  more  altered 
than  he. 

Here,  I  ought  to  tell  you  something,  referrmg  to  that 
which,  as  we  agreed,  we  are  best  not  speaking  of,  even  be- 
tween .ourselves.  It  is  all  over  and  done — cover  it  over, 
and  let  it  heal. 

My  dear  Max,  Penelope  confesses  a  thing  for  which  I  am 
very  sorry,  but  it  can  not  be  helped  now. 

I  told  you  they  never  name  you  here.  Not  usually,  but 
she  did  that  night.  Just  as  she  was  leaving  me,  she  ex- 
claimed, suddenly : 

"  Dora,  I  have  broken  my  promise — Francis  knows  about 
Doctor  Urquhart." 

"What!"  I  cried. 

"Don't  be  terrified — not  the  whole.  Merely  that  he 
wanted  to  marry  you,  but  that  papa  found  out  he  had  done 
something  wrong  in  his  youth,  and  so  forbade  you  to  think 
of  him." 

I  asked  her,  was  she  sure  no  more  had  escaped  her? 


292  A    LIFli;    ¥011    A    LIFE. 

Not  that  I  feared  much :  Penelope  is  literally  accurate,  and 
scrupulously  straightforward  in  all  her  words  and  w^ays. 
But  still,  Francis  being  a  little  less  so  than  she,  might  have 
questioned  her. 

"  So  he  did,  and  I  refused  point-blank  to  tell  him,  saying 
it  would  be  a  breach  of  trust.  He  was  very  angry;  jeal- 
ous, I  think,"  and  she  smiled,  "  till  I  informed  him  tliat  it 
was  not  my  own  secret — all  my  own  secrets  I  had  invaria- 
bly told  him,  as  he  me.  At  which,  he  said, '  Yes,  of  course,' 
and  the  matter  ended.  Are  you  annoyed  ?  Do  you  doubt 
Francis's  honor  ?" 

"  ISTo.  For  all  that,  I  have  felt  anxious,  and  I  can  not 
choose  btiit  tell  Max ;  partly  because  he  has  a  right  to  all 
my  anxieties,  and,  also,  that  he  may  guard  against  any  pos- 
sibility of  harm.  None  is  likely  to  come  though ;  we  will 
not  be  afraid." 

Augustus,  in  his  letter,  says  how  highly  he  hears  you 
spoken  of  in  Liverpool  already ;  how  your  duties  at  the 
jail  are  the  least  of  your  work,  and  that  whatever  you  do, 
or  wherever  you  go,  you  leave  a  good  influence  behind  you. 
These  were  his  very  words.  I  was  proud,  though  I  knew 
it  all  before. 

He  says  you  are  looking  thin,  as  if  you  were  overworked. 
Max,  my  Max,  take  care.  Give  all  due  energy  to  the  work 
you  have  to  do,  but  remember  me  likewise;  remember 
what  is  mine.  I  think,  perhaps  you  take  too  long  walks 
between  the  town  and  the  jail,  and  that  may  be  the  pris- 
oners themselves  get  far  better  and  more  regular  meals 
than  the  doctor  does.  See  to  this,  if  you  please,  Doctor 
Urquhart. 

Tell  me  more  about  those  poor  prisoners,  in  whom  you 
take  so  strong  an  interest — your  spiritual  as  Avell  as  medical 
hospital.  And  give  me  a  clearer  notion  of  your  doings  in 
the  towm,  your  practice  and  schemes,  your  gratis  patients, 
dispensaries  and  so  on.  Also,  Augustus  said  you  were  em- 
ployed in  drawing  up  reports  and  statistics  about  reforma- 
tories, and  on  the  general  question  now  so  much  discussed : 
What  is  to  be  done  with  our  criminal  classes  ?  How  busy 
you  must  be !  Can  not  I  help  you  ?  Send  me  your  MSS. 
to  copy.     Give  me  some  work  to  do. 

Max,  do  you  remember  our  talk  by  the  pond-side,  when 
the  sun  was  setting,  and  the  hills  looked  so  still,  and  soft, 
and  blue  ?  I  was  there  the  other  day,  and  thought  it  all 
over.     Yes,  I  could  have  been  happy,  even  in  the  solitary 


A   LITE   FOR   A   LIFE.  293 

life  we  both  then  looked  forward  to,  but  it  is  better  to  be- 
long to  yon  as  I  do  now. 

God  bless  yon  and  kee]3  yon  safe !     Yours, 

TlIEODOEA. 

P.S. — ^I  leave  a  blank  page  to  fill  up  after  Penelope  and  I 
come  home.  We  are  going  into  to\\Ti  together  early  to- 
morrow, to  inquire  about  the  character  of  the  lady's  maid 
that  is  to  be  taken  abroad,  but  Ave  shall  be  back  long  be- 
fore post-time.  However,  I  have  written  all  this  over- 
night to  make  sure. 

Sunday. 

P.S. — You  will  have  missed  your  Sunday  letter  to-day, 
which  vexes  me  sore.  But  it  is  the  first  time  you  have 
ever  looked  for  a  letter  and  "  wanted"  it,  and  I  trust  it  will 
be  the  last.  Ah!  now  I  understand  a  little  of  what  Penel- 
ope must  have  felt,  looking  day  after  day  for  Francis's  let- 
ters, which  never  came ;  hoAV  every  morning  before  post- 
time  she  would  go  about  the  house  as  bhthe  as  a  lark,  and 
afterward  turn  cross  and  disagreeable,  and  her  face  would 
settle  into  the  sharp,  hard-set  expression,  which  made  her 
look  so  old  even  then.  Poor  Penelope !  if  she  could  have 
trusted  him  the  while,  it  might  have  been  otherwise — men's 
ways  and  lives  are  so  different  from  women's — ^but  it  is  this 
love  without  perfect  trust  which  has  been  the  sting  of  Pe- 
nelope's existence. 

I  try  to  remember  this  when  she  makes  me  feel  angry 
mth  her,  as  she  did  on  Saturday,  It  was  through  her  fault 
you  missed  your  Sunday  letter. 

You  know  I  always  post  them  myself  in  the  town ;  our 
village  post-oflice  would  soon  set  all  the  neighbors  chatter- 
ing about  you  and  me ;  and,  besides,  it  is  pleasant  to  walk 
through  the  quiet  lanes  we  both  know  well  with  Max's  let- 
ter in  my  hand,  and  think  that  it  will  be  in  his  hand  to- 
morrow. For  this  I  generally  choose  the  time  when  papa 
rests  before  dinner,  with  one  or  other  of  us  reading  to  him ; 
and  Penelope  has  hitherto,  without  saying  any  thing,  always 
taken  my  place  and  set  me  free  on  a  Saturday — a  kindness 
I  felt  more  than  I  expressed  many  a  time.  But  to-day  she 
was  unkind — shut  herself  up  in  her  room  the  instant  we 
returned  from  town ;  then  papa  called  me  and  detained  me 
till  after  post-time. 

So  you  lost  your  letter ;  a  small  thing,  you  will  say,  and 
this  was  a  foolish  girl  to  vex  herself  so  much  about  it,  es- 


294  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

pecially  as  she  can  make  it  longer  and  more  interesting  by 
details  of  our  adventures  in  town  yesterday. 

It  was  not  altogether  a  pleasant  day,  for  something  hap- 
pened about  the  servant  which  I  am  sure  annoyed  Penel- 
ope ;  nay,  she  being  overtired  and  overexerted  already,  this 
new  vexation,  whatever  it  was,  made  her  quite  ill  for  the 
time,  though  she  would  not  allow  it,  and,  when  I  A^entured 
to  question,  bade  me,  sharply,  "  let  her  alone."  You  know 
Penelope's  ways,  and  may  have  seen  them  reflected  in  me 
sometimes.  I  am  afraid.  Max,  that,  however  good  we  may 
be  (of  coiirse !),  we  are  not  exactly  what  would  be  termed 
"  an  amiable  family." 

We  were  amiable  when  w^e  started,  however :  my  sister 
and  I  went  up  to  town  quite  merriiy.  I  am  merry  some- 
times, in  spite  of  all  things.  You  see,  to  have  every  one 
that  belongs  to  one  happy  and  prosj)erous  is  a  great  element 
in  one's  personal  content.  Other  people's  troubles  Aveigh 
heavily,  because  we  never  know  exactly  how  they  will  bear 
them,  and  because,  at  best,  we  can  only  sit  by  and  watch 
them  suiFer,  so  little  help  being  possible  after  all.  But  our 
own  troubles  we  can  always  bear.  • 

You  will  understand  all  I  mean  by  "  our  own."  I  am 
often  very  sad  for  you.  Max ;  but  never  afraid  for  you, 
never  in  doubt  about  you,  not  for  an  instant.  There  is  no 
sting,  even  in  my  saddest  thought,  concerning  you.  I  trust 
you ;  I  feel  certain  that  whatever  you  do  you  will  do  right 
— that  all  you  have  to  endure  will  be  borne  nobly  and 
bravely.  Thus  I  may  grieve  over  your  griefs,  but  never 
over  you.  My  love  of  you,  like  my  faith  in  you,  is  above 
all  grieving.  Forgive  this  long  digression ;  to-day  is  Sun- 
day, the  best  day  in  all  the  week,  and  my  day  for  thinking 
most  of  you. 

To  return.  Penelope  and  I  were  both  merry  as  we 
started  by  the  very  earliest  train  in  the  soft  May  mornmg, 
we  had  so  much  business  to  get  through.  Yotc  can't  un- 
derstand it,  of  course,  so  I  omit  it,  only  confiding  to  you 
our  last  crowning  achievement — the  dress.  It  is  white 
moire  antique  ;  Doctor  Urquhart  has  not  the  slightest  idea 
what  that  is,  but  no  matter ;  and  it  has  lace  flounces  half  a 
yard  deep,  and  it  is  altogether  a  most  splendid  afiair.  But 
the  governor's  lady — I  beg  my  own  j)ardon — the  governor's 
wife  must  be  magnificent,  you  know. 

It  was  the  mantua-maker,  a  great  West-end  personage 
employed  by  the  grand  family  to  whom,  by  Francis's  ad- 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  '  295 

vice,  Lydia  Cartwright  was  sent  some  years  ago  (by-the-by, 
I  met  Mrs.  Cartwright  to-day,  wlio  asked  after  you,  and 
sent  her  duty,  and  wished  you  would  know  that  she  had 
heard  from  Lydia) — this  mantua-maker  it  was  who  recom- 
mended the  lady's  maid,  Sarah  Enfield,  who  had  once  been 
a  workwoman  of  her  own.  We  saw  the  person,  who  seem- 
ed a  decent  young  woman,  but  delicate-looking ;  said  her 
health  was  injured  by  the  long  hours  of  millinery- work,  and 
that  she  should  have  died,  she  thought,  if  a  friend  of  hers, 
a  kind  young  woman,  had  not  taken  her  in  and  helped  her. 
She  was  lodging  with  this  friend  now. 

On  the  whole,  Sarah  Enfield  sufiiciently  pleased  us  to 
make  my  sister  decide  on  engaging  her,  if  only  Francis 
could  see  her  first.  We  sent  a  message  to  his  lodgings, 
'and  were  considerably  surprised  to  have  the  answer  that 
he  was  not  at  home,  and  had  not  been  for  three  weeks; 
indeed,  he  hardly  ever  was  at  home.  After  some  annoy- 
ance, Penelope  resolved  to  make  her  decision  without  him. 
.  Hardly  ever  at  home !  What  a  lively  life  Francis  must 
lead !  I  wonder  he  does  not  grow  weary  of  it.  Once  he 
half  owned  he  was,  but  added,  "  that  he  must  float  with  the 
stream — it  was  too  late  now — ^he  could  not  stop  himself." 
Penelope  will,  though. 

As  we  drove  through  the  Park  to  the  address  Sarah  En- 
field had  given  us — somewhere  about  Kensington — Penel- 
ope wishing  to  see  the  girl  once  again  and  engage  her — 
my  sister  observed,  in  answer  to  my  remark,  that  Francis 
must  liave  many  invitations, 

"  Of  course  he  has.  It  shows  how  much  he  is  liked  and 
respected.  It  will  be  the  same  abroad.  We  shall  gather 
round  us  the  very  best  society  in  the  island.  Still  he  will 
find  it  a  great  change  from  London." 

I  wonder  is  she  at  all  afraid  of  it,  or  suspects  that  he  once 
was  ?  that  he  shrank  from  being  thrown  altogether  upon 
his  wife's  society,  like  the  Frenchman  who  declined  marry- 
ing a  lady  he  had  long  visited  because  "  where  should  he 
spend  his  evenings  ?"  Oh,  me !  what  a  heart-breaking 
thing  to  feel  that  one's  husband  needed  somewhere  to  spend 
his  evenings. 

We  drove  past  Holland  Park ;  what  a  bonnie  place  it  is 
(as  you  would  say) ;  how  full  the  trees  were  of  green  leaves 
and  birds.  I  don't  know  where  we  went  next — I  hardly 
know  any  thing  of  London,  thank  goodness  ! — but  it  was  a 
pretty,  quiet  neighborhood,  Avhere  we  had  the  greatest  dif- 


296  A   LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

iiculty  in  finding  the  house  we  wanted,,  and,  at  last,  had  re- 
course to  the  post-office. 

The  post-mistress,  who  was  rather  grim — "knew  the 
place,  that  is,  the  name  of  the  party  as  lived  there,  which 
was  all  she  cared  to  know.  She  called  herself  Mrs.  Chay- 
tor,  or  Chater,  or  something  like  it,"  which  we  decided 
must  be  Sarah  Enfield's  charitable  friend,  and  accordingly 
drove  thither. 

It  was  a  small  house,  a  mere  cottage,  set  in  a  pleasant 
little  garden,  through  the  palings  of  which  I  saw  walking 
about  a  young  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  She  had 
on  a  straw  hat  with  a  deep  lace  fall  that  hid  her  face,  but 
her  figure  was  very  graceful,  and  she  was  extremely  well 
dressed.  Nevertheless,  she  looked  not  exactly  "  the  lady.'* 
Also,  hearing  the  gate  bell,  she  called  out,  "  Ai-riet,"  in  no 
lady's  voice. 

Penelope  glanced  at  her  and  then  sharply  at  me. 

"I  wonder — "  she  began,  but  stopped — told  me  to  re- 
main in  the  carriage  while  she  went  in,  and  she  would  fetch 
me  if  she  wanted  me._ 

But  she  did  not.  Indeed,  she  hardly  staid  two  minutes. 
I  saw  the  young  woman  run  hastily  in-doors,  leaving  her 
child — such  a  j)i-etty  boy  !  screaming  after  his  "  mammy" 
— and  Penelope  came  back,  her  face  the  color  of  scarlet. 

"  What  ?     Is  it  a  mistake  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No — yes,"  and  she  gave  the  order  to  drive  on. 

Agaui  I  inquired  if  any  thing  Avere  the  matter,  and  was 
answered,  "  Nothing^nothing  that  I  could  imderstand." 
After  which  she  sat  with  her  veil  down,  cogitating,  till  all 
of  a  sudden  she  sprang  up  as  if  some  one  had  given  her  a 
stab  at  her  heart.  I  was  quite  terrified,  but  she  again  told 
me  it  was  nothing,  and  bade  me  "let  her  alone ;"  which,  as 
you  know,  is  the  only  thing  one  can  do  with  my  sister  Pe- 
nelope^ 

But  at  the  railway  station  we  met  some  people  we  knew, 
and  she  was  forced  to  talk ;  so  that  by  the  time  we  reached 
Rockmount  she  seemed  to  have  got  over  her  annoyance, 
whatever  it  was,  concerning  Sarah  Enfield,  and  was  herself 
again.  That  is,  herself  in  one  of  those  moods  when,  wheth- 
er her  ailment  be  mental  or  physical,  the  sole  chance  of  its 
passing  away  is,  as  she  says,  "  to  leave  her  alone." 

I  do  not  say  this  is  not  trying — doubly  so  now,  when, 
just  as  she  is  leaving,  I  seem  to  understand  my  sister  bet- 
ter and  love  her  more  than  ever  I  did  in  my  life.     But  I 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  297 

have  learned  at  last  not  to  break  my  heart  over  the  pecnl- 
iarities  of  those  I  care  for,  but  try  to  bear  with  them  as 
they  must  with  mine,  of  which  I  have  no  lack,  goodness 
knows ! 

I  saw  a  letter  to  Francis  in  the  post-bag  this  morning, 
so  I  hope  she  has  relieved  her  mind  by  giving  hun  the  ex- 
planation which  she  refused  to  me.  It  must  have  been 
some  deception  practiced  on  her  by  this  Sarah  Enfield,  and 
Penelope  never  forgives  the  smallest  deceit. 

She  was  either  too  much  tired  or  too  much  annoyed  to 
appear  iigain  yesterday,  so  papa  and  I  spent  the  afternoon 
and  evening  alone.  But  she  went  to  church  with  us  as 
wsual  to-day,  looking  pale  and  tired,  the  ill  mood — "the 
little  black  clog  on  her  shoulder,"  as  we  used  to  call  it — 
not  having  quite  vanished. 

Also,  I  noticed  an  absent  expression  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
voice  in  the  responses  was  less  regular  than  usual.  Perhaps 
she  was  thinking  this  would  almost  be  her  last  Sunday  of 
sitting  in  the  old  pew,  and  looking  up  to  papa's  white  hair, 
and  her  heart  being  fuller,  her  lij)S  v/ere  more  silent  than 
usual. 

You  will  not  mind  my  writing  so  much  about  my  sister 
Penelope?  You  like  me  to  talk  to  you  of  what  is  about 
me  and  uppermost  in  my  thoughts,  which  is  herself  at  pre- 
sent. She  has  been  very  good  to  me,  and  Max  loves  every 
one  whom  I  love,  and  every  one  who  loves  me. 

I  shall  have  your  letter  to-morrow  mornmg.   Good-night ! 

Theodoea. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HIS    STOET. 

My  dear  Theodoea, — This  is  a  line  extra,  written  on 
receipt  of  yours,  which  was  most  welcome.  I  feared  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  with  my  httle  methodical  girl. 

Do  not  keep  strictly  to  your  Dominical  letter  just  now ; 
write  any  day  that  you  can.  Tell  me  every  thing  that  is 
happening  to  you — you  must,  and  ought.  Nothing  must 
occur  to  you  or  yours  that  I  do  not  know.    You  are  mine. 

Your  last  letter  I  do  not  answer  in  detail  till  the  next 
shall  come ;  not  exactly  from  press  of  business — I  would 
make  time  if  I  had  it  not — but  from  various  other  reasons, 
which  you  shall  have  by-and-by. 

M2 


298  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Give  me,  if  you  remember  it,  the  address  of  the  person 
with  whom  Sarah  Enfield  is  lodging.  I  suspect  she  is  a 
woman  of  whom,  by  the  desire  of  her  nearest  relative,  I 
have  been  in  search  for  some  time.  But,  should  you 
have  forgotten,  do  not  trouble  your  sister  about  this.  I 
will  find  all  I  wish  to  learn  in  some  other  way.  Never 
apologize  or  hesitate  at  writing  to  me  about  your  family — 
all  that  is  yours  is  mine.  Keep  your  heart  up  about  your 
sister  Penelope ;  she  is  a  good  woman,  and  all  that  befalls 
her  will  be  for  her  good.  Love  her,  and  be  patient  with 
her  continually.  All  your  love  for  her  and  the  rest  takes 
nothing  from  what  is  mine,  but  adds  thereto. 

Let  me  hear  soon  what  is  passing  at  Rockmount.  I  can 
not  come  to  you  and  help  you — would  I  could !  My  love ! 
my  love !  Max  Ueqtjhaet. 

There  is  little  or  nothing  to  say  of  myself  this  week,  and 
what  there  was  you  heard  yesterday. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


HER    STORY. 

My  dear  Max, — ^I  write  this  in  the  middle  of  the  night ; 
there  has  been  no  chance  for  me  during  the  day,  nor,  in- 
deed, at  all — until  now.  To-night,  for  the  first  time,  Penel- 
ope has  fallen  asleep.  I  have  taken  the  opportunity  of 
stealing  into  the  next  room,  to  comfort — and  you. 

My  dear  Max !  Oh,  if  you  knew !  oh,  if  I  could  but 
come  to  you  for  one  minute's  rest,  one  minute's  love. 
There,  I  will  not  cry  any  more.  It  is  much  to  be  able  to 
write  to  you,  and  blessed,  infinitely  blessed  to  know  you 
are — what  you  are. 

Max,  I  have  been  weak,  wicked  of  late ;  afraid  of  ab- 
sence, which  tries  me  so,  because  I  am  not  strong,  and  can 
not  stand  up  by  myself  as  I  used  to  do ;  afraid  of  death, 
which  might  tear  you  from  me,  or  me  from  you,  leaving 
the  other  to  go  mourning  upon  earth  forever.  Now  I  feel 
that  absence  is  nothing,  death  itself  nothing,  compared  to 
one  loss — ^that  which  has  befallen  my  sister  Penelope. 

You  may  have  heard  of  it,  even  in  these  few  days — ill 
news  spreads  fast.  Tell  me  what  you  hear ;  for  we  wish 
to  save  my  sister  as  much  as  we  can.  To  our  friends  gen- 
erally, I  have  merely  written  that,  "  from  unforeseen  difier- 
ences,"  the  marriage  is  broken  ofi*.     Mr.  Charteris  may 


A  LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  299 

give  what  reasons  he  Kkes  at  Treherne  Court.  We  will 
not  try  to  injure  him  with  his  uncle. 

I  have  just  crept  in  to  look  at  Penelope ;  she  is  asleep 
still,  and  has  never  stirred.  She  looks  so  old — like  a  wom- 
an of  fifty,  almost.  No  wonder.  Think — ^ten  years — all 
her  youth  to  be  crushed  out  at  once.  I  wonder,  will  it  kill 
her  ?     It  would  me. 

I  wanted  to  ask  you — do  you  think,  medically,  there  is 
any  present  danger  in  her  state  ?  She  hes  quiet  enough ; 
taking  little  notice  of  me  or  any  body — with  her  eyes  shut 
durmg  the  daytime,  and  open,  wide-staring,  all  night  long. 
What  ought  I  to  do  with  her  ?  There  is  only  me,  you 
know«  If  you  fear  any  thing,  send  me  a  telegram  at  once. 
Do  not  wait  to  write. 

But,  that  you  may  the  better  judge  her  state,  I  ought 
just  to  give  you  full  particulars,  beginning  where  my  last 
letter  ended. 

That  "  little  black  dog  on  her  shoulder,"  which  I  spoke 
of  so  lightly !  God  forgive  me !  also  for  leaving  her  the 
whole  of  that  Sunday  afternoon  with  her  door  locked,  and 
the  room  as  still  as  death ;  yet  never  once  knocking  to  ask, 
"  Penelope,  how  are  you  ?'* 

On  Sunday  night,  the  curate  came  to  supper,  and  papa 
sent  me  to  summon  her ;  she  came  down  stairs,  took  her 
place  at  table,  and  conversed.  I  did  not  notice  her  much, 
except  that  she  moved  about  in  a  stupid,  stunned-hke  fash- 
ion, which  caused  papa  to  remark  more  than  once,  "  Penel- 
ope, I  think  you  are  half  asleep."     She  never  answered. 

Another  night,  and  the  half  of  another  day,  she  must 
have  spent  in  the  same  manner.  And  I  let  her  do  it  with- 
out inquiry !     Shall  I  ever  forgive  myself? 

In  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  I  was  sitting  at  work,  busy 
finishing  ker  embroidered  marriage  handkerchief,  alone  in 
the  sunshiny  parlor,  thinking  of  my  letter,  which  you  would 
have  received  at  last ;  also  thinking  it  was  rather  wicked 
of  my  happy  sister  to  sulk  for  two  whole  days,  because  of  a 
small  disappointment  about  a  servant — if  such  it  were.  I 
had  almost  determined  to  shake  her  out  of  her  ridiculous 
reserve,  by  asking  boldly  what  was  the  matter,  and  giving 
her  a  thorough  scolding  if  I  dared ;  when  the  door  opened, 
and  in  walked  Francis  Charteris. 

Heartily  glad  to  see  him,  in  the  hope  his  coming  might 
set  Penelope  right  again,  I  jumped  up  and  shook  hands 
cordially.  I^or  till  afterwarcl  did  I  remember  how  much 
this  seemed  to  surprise  and  relieve  him,         -      ' 


300  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

"  Oh,  then,  all  is  right !"  said  he.  "  I  feared  from  Penel- 
ope's letter,  that  she  was  a  little  annoyed  with  me.  Noth- 
ing new  that,  you  know." 

"  Something  did  annoy  her,  I  snspect,"  and  I  was  about 
to  blurt  out  as  much  as  I  knew  or  guessed  of  the  foolish 
mystery  about  Sarah  Enfield,  but  some  instinct  stopped 
me.  "  You  and  Penelope  had  better  settle  your  own  af- 
fairs," said  I,  laughing.     "  Pll  go  and  fetch  her." 

''  Thank  you."  He  threw  himself  down  on  the  velvet 
arm-chair— his  favorite  lounge  in  our  house  for  the  last  ten 
years.  His  handsome  profile  turned  up  against  the  light, 
his  fingers  lazily  tapping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  a  trick  he 
had  from  his  boyhood — this  is  my  last  impression  of  Fran- 
cis— as  0117'  Francis  Charteris. 

I  had  to  call  outside  Penelope's  door  three  times,  "  Fran- 
cis is  here."  "Francis  is  w^aiting."  "Francis  wants  to 
speak  to  you,"  before  she  answered  or  apj^eared ;  and  then, 
wdthout  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  me,  she  walked  slow- 
ly down  stairs,  holding  by  the  wall  as  she  went. 

So,  I  thought,  it  is  Francis  who  has  vexed  her  after  all, 
and  determined  to  leave  them  to  fight  it  out  and  make  it 
up  again — this,  which  would  be  the  last  of  their  many  lov- 
ers' quarrels.     Ah !  it  w^as. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  papa  sent  for  me  to  the  study, 
and  there  I  saw  Francis  Charteris  standing  exactly  where 
you  once  stood— you  see,  I  am  not  afraid  of  remembering 
it  myself,  or  of  remmding  you.  No,  my  Max !  Our  griefs 
are  nothing,  nothing ! 

Penelope  was  also  present,  standing  by  my  father,  w^ho 
said,  looking  round  at  us  with  a  troubled,  bewildered  air : 

"  Dora,  what  is  all  this  ?  Your  sister  comes  here  and 
tells  me  she  will  not  marry  Francis.  Francis  rushes  in  aft- 
er her,  and  says,  I  hardly  can  make  out  what.  Children, 
why  do  you  vex  me  so  ?  Why  can  not  you  leave  an  old 
man  in  peace  ?" 

Penelope  answered,  "  Father,  you  shall  be  left  in  peace, 
if  you  will  only  confirm  what  I  have  said  to  that — that  gen- 
tleman, and  send  him  out  of  my  sight." 

Francis  laughed — "  To  be  called  back  again  presently. 
You  know  you  will  do  it,  as  soon  as  you  have  come  to  your 
right  senses,  Penelope.  You  will  never  disgrace  us  in  the 
eyes  of  the  w^orld — set  every  body  gossiping  about  our  af' 
fairs,  for  such  a  trifle." 

My  sister  made  him  no  answer.     There  was  less  even 


A    LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  301 

of  anger  than  contempt — utter,  measureless  contempt — in 
the  way  she  just  hfted  up  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him — 
looked  him  over  from  head  to  heel,  and  turned  again  to 
her  father. 

"Papa,  make  him  understand — I  can  not — that  I  wish 
all  this  ended ;  I  wish  never  to  see  his  face  again." 

"  Why  ?"  said  papa,  in  great  perplexity. 

"  He  knows  why." 

Papa  and  I  both  turned  to  Francis,  whose  careless  man- 
ner changed  a  little ;  he  grew  red  and  uncomfortable.  "  She 
may  tell  if  she  chooses ;  I  lay  no  embargo  of  silence  upon 
her.  I  have  made  all  the  explanations  possible,  and  if  she 
will  not  receive  them,  I  can  not  help  it.  The  thing  is  done, 
and  can  not  be  undone.  I  liave  begged  her  pardon — and 
made  all  sorts  of  promises  for  the  future — ^no  man  can  do 
more." 

He.  said  this  sullenly,  and  yet  as  if  he  wished  to  mate 
friends  with  her,  but  Penelope  seemed  scarcely  even  to 
hear. 

"Papa,"  she  repeated,  still  in  the  same  stony  voice,  "I 
wish  you  would  end  this  scene ;  it  is  killing  me.  Tell  him, 
will  you,  that  I  have  burned  all  his  letters,  every  one.  In- 
sist on  his  returning  mine.  His  presents  are  all  tied  up  in 
a  parcel  in  my  room,  except  this ;  will  you  give  it  back  to 
him  ?" 

She  took  off  her  ring,  a  small  common  turquoise  which 
Francis  had  given  her  when  he  was  young  and  poor,  and 
laid  it  on  the  table.  Francis  snatched  it  up,  handled  it  a 
minute,  and  then  threw  it  violently  into  the  lire. 

"  Bear  witness,  Mr.  Johnston,  and  you  too,  Dora,  that  it 
is  Penelope,  not  I,  who  breaks  our  engagement.  I  would 
have  fulfilled  it  honorably — I  would  have  married  her." 

"  Would  you  ?"  cried  Penelope  with  flashing  eyes,  "  no 
— not  that  last  degradation — no !" 

"  I  would  have  married  her,"  Francis  continued,  "  and 
made  her  a  good  husband  too.  Her  reason  for  refusing  me 
is  puerile — perfectly  puerile.  No  woman  of  sense,  who 
knows  any  thing  of  the  world,  would  urge  it  for  a  moment. 
N^or  man  either,  unless  he  was  your  favorite — who  I  be-  • 
lieve  is  at  the  bottom  of  this,  Avho,  for  all  you  know,  may 
be  doing  exactly  as  I  have  done — Doctor  Urquhart." 

Papa  started  and  said  hastily,  "  Confine  yourself  to  the 
subject  on  hand,  Francis.  Of  what  is  this  that  my  daugh- 
ter accuses  you?     Tell  me,  and  let  me  judge." 


302  '  A   LIFE    FOR    A   LIFE. 

Francis  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "  Send  away  these  girls, 
and  you  shall  hear." 

Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  me  lohat  it  was.  How  the  in- 
tuition came,  how  little  things,  before  unnoticed,  seemed  to 
rise  and  put  themselves  together,  including  Saturday's  story 
— and  the  shudder  that  ran  through  Penelope  from  head 
to  foot,  when  on  Sunday  morning  old  Mrs.  Cartwright 
courtesied  to  her  at  the  church-door — all  this  I  can  not  ac- 
count for,  but  I  seemed  to  know  as  well  as  if  I  had  been 
told  every  thing.  I  need  not  explain,  for  evidently  you 
know  it  also,  and  it  is  so  dreadful,  so  unspeakably  dreadful. 

Oh,  Max,  for  the  first  minute  or  so,  I  felt  as  if  the  whole 
world  were  crumbling  from  under  my  feet — as  I  could 
trust  nobody — ^believe  in  nobody — until  I  remembered  you. 
My  dear  Max,  my  own  dear  Max  !  Ah  !  wretched  Penel- 
ope. 

I  took  her  hand  as  she  stood,  but  she  twisted  it  out  of 
mine  again.  I  listened  mechanically  to  Francis,  as  he 
again  began  rapidly  and  eagerly  to  exculpate  himself  to 
my  father. 

"  She  may  tell  you  all,  if  she  likes.  I  have  done  no 
worse  than  hundreds  do  in  my  position,  and  under  my  un- 
fortunate circumstances,  and  the  world  forgives  them,  and 
women  to.  How  could  I  help  it  ?  I  was  too  poor  to 
marry.  And  before  I  married  I  meant  to  do  every  one 
justice — ^I  meant — " 

Penelope  covered  her  ears.  Her  face  was  so  ghastly, 
that  papa  himself  said,  "  I  think,  Francis,  explanations  are 
idle.     You  had  better  defer  them  and  go." 

"  I  will  take  you  at  your  word,"  he  replied  haughtily. 
"  If  you  or  she  think  better  of  it,  or  of  me,  I  shall  be  at 
any  time  ready  to  fulfill  my  engagement — -honorably,  as  a 
gentleman  should.  Good-by ;  will  you  not  shake  hands 
with  me,  Penelope  ?" 

He  walked  up  to  her,  trying  apparently  to  carry  things 
off  with  a  high  air,  but  he  was  not  strong  enough,  or  hard- 
ened enough.  At  sight  of  my  sister  sitting  there,  for  she 
had  sunk  down  at  last,  with  a  face  like  a  corpse,  only  it 
had  not  the  peace  of  the  dead,  Francis  trembled. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  done  you  any  harm.  It  was  all 
the  result  of  circumstances.  Perhaps,  if  you  had  been  a 
httle  less  rigid— had  scolded  me  less  and  studied  me  more — 
But  you  could  not  help  your  nature,  nor  I  mine.  Good-by, 
Penelope." 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  303 

She  sat,  impassive ;  even  when,  with  a  sort  of  involuntary 
tenderness,  he  seized  and  kissed  her  hand ;  but  the  instant 
he  was  gone — fairly  gone — with  the  door  shut  uj)on  him 
and  his  horse  clattering  down  the  road — I  heard  it  plainly 
— Penelope  started  up  with  a  cry  of  "  Francis — ^Francis  !" 
Oh,  the  anguish  of  it !     I  can  hear  it  now. 

But  it  was  not  this  Francis  she  called  after — I  was  sure 
of  that — I  saw  it  in  her  eyes.  It  was  the  Francis  of  ten 
years  ago — the  Francis  she  had  loved — now  as  utterly 
dead  and  buried  as  if  she  had  seen  the  stone  laid  over  him, 
and  his  body  left  to  sleep  in  the  grave. 

Dead  and  buried — dead  and  buried.  Do  you  know,  I 
sometimes  wish  it  were  so  ;  that  she  had  been  left,  peace- 
fully widowed — knowing  his  soul  was  safe  with  God.  I 
thought,  when  papa  and  I — papa,  who  that  night  kissed 
me,  for  the  first  time  since  one  night  you  know — sat  by 
Penelope's  bed,  watching  her — "  K  Francis  had  only  died !" 

After  she  was  quiet,  and  I  had  persuaded  papa  to  go  to 
rest,  he  sent  for  me  and  desired  me  to  read  a' psalm,  as  I 
used  to  do  when  he  was  ill— you  remember  ?  When  it 
was  ended,  he  asked  me,  had  I  any  idea  what  Francis  had 
done  that  Penelope  could  not  pardon  ? 

I  told  him,  difficult  and  painful  as  it  was  to  do  it,  all  I 
suspected — indeed,  felt  sure  of  For  was  it  not  the  truth  ? 
the  only  answer  I  could  give.  For  the  same  reason  I  write 
of  these  terrible  things  to  you  without  any  false  delicacy — 
they  are  the  truth,  and  they  must  be  told. 

Papa  lay  for  some  time,  thinking  deejDly.  At  last  he 
said, 

"  My  dear,  you  are  no  longer  a  child,  and  I  may  speak 
to  you  plainly.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  your  mother  is  dead. 
I  wish  she  were  with  us  now — she  might  help  us ;  for  she 
was  a  good  w^man,  Dora.  Do  you  think — take  time  to 
consider  the  question — that  your  sister  is  acting  right  ?" 

I  said,  "  Quite  right." 

"  Yet,  I  thought  you  held  that  doctrine,  '  the  greater  the 
sinner  the  greater  the  saint;'  and  beheved  every  crime  a 
man  can  commit  may  be  repented,  atoned,  and  pardoned  ?" 

"Yes,  father;  but  Francis  has  never  either  repented  or 
atoned." 

JSTo ;  and  therefore  I  feel  certain  my  sister  is  right.  Ay, 
even  putting  aside  the  other  fact,  that  the  discovery  of  his 
long  years  of  deception  must  have  so  withered  up  her  love 
— scorched  it  at  the  root,  as  with  a  stroke  of  lightning — 


304  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

that  even  if  she  pitied  him,  she  must  also  despise.  Fancy 
despising  one's  hushcmd! 

Besides,  she  is  not  the  only  one  wronged.  Sometimes, 
even  sitting  by  my  sister's  bedside,  I  see  the  vision  of  that 
pretty  young  creature — she  was  so  pretty  and  innocent 
Avhen  she  first  came  to  live  at  Rockmount — with  her  boy 
in  her  arms  ;  and  my  heart  feels  like  to  burst  with  indig- 
nation and  shame,  and  a  kind  of  shuddering  horror  at  the 
wickedness  of  the  world — yet  wdth  a  strange  feeling  of 
unutterable  pity  lying  at  the  depth  of  all. 

Max,  tell  me  what  you  think — you  who  are  so  much  the 
wiser  of  us  two ;  but  I  think  that,  even  if  she  wished  it 
still,  my  sister  ought  not  to  marry  Francis  Charteris. 

Ah  me  !  papa  said  truly  I  was  no  longer  a  child.  I  feel 
hardly  even  a  girl,  but  quite  an  old  woman — familiar  with 
all  sorts  of  sad  and  wicked  things,  as  if  the  freshness  and 
innocence  had  gone  out  of  lifcy  and  were  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Except  when  I  turn  to  you,  and  lean  my  poor  sick 
heart  against  you,  as  I  do  now.     Max,  comfort  me ! 

You  will,  I  know,  write  immediately  you  receive  this. 
If  you  could  have  come — ^but  that  is  impossible. 

Augustus  you  will  probably  see,  if  you  have  not  done  so 
already — for  he  already  looks  upon  you  as  the  friend  of  the 
family,  though  in  no  other  light  as  yet;  which  is  best. 
Paj)a  wrote  to  Sir  William,  I  believe ;  he  said  he  consid- 
ered some  explanation  a  duty,  on  his  daughter's  account ; 
farther  than  this,  he  wishes  the  matter  kept  quiet.  Not  to 
disgrace  Francis,  I  thought ;  but  papa  told  me  one  half  the 
world  would  hardly  consider  it  any  disgrace  at  all.  Can 
this  be  so  ?     Is  it  indeed  such  a  wicked,  wicked  world  ? 

— Here  my  letter  was  stopped  by  hearing  a  sort  of  cry 
in  Penelope's  room.  I  ran  in,  and  found  her  sitting  up  in 
her  bed,  her  eyes  starting,  and  every  hmb  cgaivulsed.  See- 
ing me,  she  cried  out, 

"  Bring  a  Hght ;  I  was  dreaming.  But  it's  not  true. 
Where  is  Francis  ?" 

I  made  no  reply,  and  she  slowly  sank  down  in  her  bed 
again.     Recollection  had  come. 

"I  should  not  have  gone  to  sleep.  Why  did  you  let 
me  ?  Or  why  can  not  you  put  me  to  sleep  forever,  and 
ever,  and  ever,  and  ever  ?"  repeating  the  word  many  times. 
"  Dora,"  and  my  sister  fixed  her  piteous  eyes  on  my  face, 
''  I  should  be  so  glad  to  die.     Why  won't  you  kill  me  ?" 

I  burst  into  tears. 


A   LIPE   FOE   A  Ll^E.  305 

Max,  you  will  understand  the  total  helplessness  one  feels 
in  the  presence  of  an  irremediable  grief  like  this  ;  how  con- 
solation seems  cruel,  and  reasoning  vain.  "  Miserable  com- 
forters are  ye  all,"  said  Job  to  his  three  friends ;  and  a  mis- 
erable comforter  I  felt  to  this  my  sister,  whom  it  had  pleased 
the  Almighty  to  smite  so  sore,  until  I  remembered  that  He 
who  smites  can  heal. 

I  lay  down  outside  the  bed,  put  my  arm  over  her,  and 
remained  thus  for  a  long  time,  not  saying  a  single  word — 
that  is,  not  with  my  lips.  And  since  our  weakness  is  often 
our  best  strength,  and  when  we  wholly  relinquish  a  thing, 
it  is  given  back  to  us  many  a  time  in  double  measure,  so, 
possibly,  those  helpless  tears  of  mine  did  Penelope  more 
good  than  the  wisest  of  words. 

She  lay  watching  me — saying  more  than  once, 

"  I  did  not  know  you  cared  so  much  for  me,  Dora." 

It  then  came  into  my  muid,  that  as  wrecked  people  cling 
to  the  smallest  spar,  if,  instead  of  her  conviction  that  in  los- 
ing Francis  she  had  lost  her  all,  I  could  by  any  means  make 
Penelope  feel  that  there  were  others  to  cling  to,  others  who 
loved  her  dearly,  and  whom  she  ought  to  try  and  live  for 
still — it  might  save  her.  So,  acting  on  the  impulse,  I  told 
my  sister  how  good  I  thought  her,  and  how  wicked  I  my- 
self had  been  for  not  long  since  discovering  her  goodness. 
How,  when  at  last  I  learned  to  appreciate  her,  and  to  un- 
derstand what  a  sorely-tried  life  hers  had  been,  there  came 
not  only  respect,  but  love.  Thorough  sisterly  love,  such  as 
people  do  not  necessarily  feel  even  for  their  own  flesh  and 
blood,  but  never,  I  doubt,  except  to  them.  (Save  that,  in 
some  inexplicable  way,  fondly  reflected,  I  have  something 
of  the  same  sort  of  love  for  your  brother  Dallas.) 

Afterward,  she  lying  still  and  hstening,  I  tried  to  make 
my  sister  understand  what  I  had  myself  felt  when  she  came 
to  my  bedside  and  comforted  me  that  morning,  months  ago, 
when  I  was  so  wretched ;  how  no  wretchedness  of  loss  can 
be  altogether  unendurable,  so  long  as  it  does  not  strike  at 
the  household  peace,  but  leaves  the  sufierer  a  little  love  to 
rest  upon  at  home. 

And  at  length  I  persuaded  her  to  promise  that,  since  it 
made  both  papa  and  me  so  very  miserable  to  see  her  thus 
— and  papa  was  an  old  man,  too ;  we  miglit  not  have  him 
with  us  many  years — she  would,  for  our  sakes,  try  to  rouse 
herself,  and  see  if  life  were  not  tolerable  for  a  little  longer. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  closing  her  heavy  eyes,  and  fold- 


306  A  llFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

ing  her  hands  in  a  pitiful  kind  of  patience,  very  strange  in 
our  quick,  irritable  Penelope.  "  Yes — just  a  little  longer. 
Still,  I  think  I  shall  soon  die.     I  beheve  it  will  kill  me." 

I  did  not  contradict  her,  but  I  called  to  mind  your  words, 
that,  Penelope  being  a  good  woman,  all  would  happen  to 
lier  for  good.  Also,  it  is  usually  not  the  good  people  who 
are  killed  by  grief;  while  others  take  it  as  God's  vengeance, 
or  as  the  work  of  bhnd  chance,  they  receive  it  humbly  as 
God's  chastisement,  live  on,  and  endure.  I  do  not  think  my 
sister  will  die — whatever  she  may  think  or  desire  just  now. 
Besides  we  have  only  to  deal  Avith  the  present,  for  how  can 
we  look  forward  a  single  day  ?  How  little  we  expected  all 
this  only  a  week  ago  ! 

It  seems  strange  that  Francis  could  have  deceived  us  for 
so  long :  years,  it  must  have  been ;  but  we  have  lived  so 
retired,  and  were  such  a  simple  family  for  many  things. 
How  far  Penelope  thinks  we  know — ^papa  and  I — I  can  not 
guess;  she  is  totally  silent  on  the  subject  of  Francis.  Ex- 
cept in  that  one  outcry,  when  she  was  still  only  half  awake, 
she  has  never  mentioned  his  name. 

There  was  one  thing  more  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Max ; 
you  know  I  tell  you  every  thmg. 

Just  as  I  was  leaving  my  sister,  she,  noticing  I  was  not 
undressed,  asked  me  if  I  had  been  sitting  up  all  night,  and 
reproached  me  for  doing  so. 

I  said  "  I  was  not  Aveary — that  I  had  been  quietly  occu- 
pying myself  in  the  next  room." 

"Readmg?" 

"No." 

"  What  were  you  doing  ?"  with  sharp  suspicion. 

I  answered,  without  disguise, 

"  I  was  writing  to  Max." 

"  Max  who  ?     Oh,  I  had  forgotten  his  name." 

She  turned  from  me,  and  lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall — 
then  said, 

"  Do  you  believe  in  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  You  had  better  not.  You  will  live  to  repent  it.  Child, 
mark  my  words.  There  may  be  good  women — one  or  two, 
perhaps — ^but  there  is  not  a  single  good  man  in  the  whole 
world." 

My  heart  rose  to  my  lips,  but  deeds  speak  louder  than 
words.  I  did  not  attempt  to  defend  you.  Besides,  no  won- 
der she  should  think  thus. 


A   LIFE   FOK    A    LIFE.  30 7 

Again  she  said,  "  Dora,  tell  Doctor  Urquhart  he  was  in- 
nocent comparatively,  and  that  I  say  so.  He  only  killed 
Harry's  body,  but  those  who  deceive  ns  are  the  death 
of  one's  soul.  N"ay,"  and  by  her  expression  I  felt  sure  it 
was  not  herself  and  her  own  wrongs  my  sister  was  think- 
ing of — "there  are  those  who  destroy  both  body  and  soul." 

I  made  no  answer ;  I  only  covered  her  up,  kissed  her, 
and  left  her,  knowing  that  in  one  sense  I  did  not  leave  her 
either  forsaken  or  alone. 

And  now  I  must  leave  you,  too,  Max,  being  very  weary 
in  body,  though  my  mind  is  comforted  and  refreshed — 
ay,  ever  since  I  began  this  letter.  So  many  of  your  good 
words  have  come  back  to  me  while  I  wrote — words  which 
you  have  let  fall  at  odd  times,  long  ago,  even  when  we  were 
mere  acquaintances.  You  did  not  think  I  should  remem- 
ber them  ?     I  do,  every  one. 

This  is  a  great  blow,  no  doubt.  The  hand  of  Providence 
has  been  heavy  upon  us  and  our  house  lately.  But  I  think 
we  shall  be  able  to  bear  it.  One  always  has  courage  to 
bear  a  sorrow  which  shows  its  naked  face,  free  from  sus- 
pense or  concealment ;  stands  visibly  in  the  midst  of  the 
home,  and  has  to  be  met  and  lived  down  patiently  by  every 
member  therein. 

You  once  said  that  we  often  live  to  see  the  reason  of  af- 
fliction ;  how  all  the  events  of  life  hang  so  w^onderfully  to- 
gether, that  afterward  we  can  frequently  trace  the  chain 
of  events,  and  see  in  humble  faith  and  awe  that  out  of  each 
one  has  been  evolved  the  other,  and  that  every  thing,  bad 
and  good,  must  necessarily  have  happened  exactly  as  it  did. 
Thus  I  begin  to  see — you  v>^ill  not  be  hurt.  Max  ? — ^how 
well  it  was,  on  some  accounts,  that  we  were  not  married — 
that  I  should  still  be  livmg  at  home  with  my  sister ;  and 
that,  after  all  she  knows,  and  she  only,  of  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me  this  year,  she  can  not  reject  any  comfort  I 
may  be  able  to  offer  her  on  the  ground  that  I  myself  know 
nothing  of  sorrow. 

As  for  me  personally,  do  not  fear ;  I  have  you.  You 
once  feared  that  a  great  anguish  would  break  my  heart, 
but  it  did  not.  Nothing  in  this  world  will  ever  do  that 
while  I  have  you. 

Max,  kiss  me — in  thought,  I  mean — as  friends  kiss  friends 
who  are  starting  on  a  long  and  painful  journey,  of  which 
they  see  no  end,  yet  are  not  afraid.  Nor  am  I.  Good-by, 
my  Max.     Yours,  only  and  always, 

Theodora  JoHNSTOisr. 


308  A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

HIS    STOEY. 

Mt  dear  Theodora, — You  will  have  received  my  let- 
ters regularly,  nor  am  I  mucli  surprised  that  they  have  not 
been  answered.  I  have  heard,  from  time  to  time,  in  other 
ways,  all  particulars  of  your  sister's  illness  and  of  you. 
Mrs.  Granton  says  you  keep  up  well,  but  I  know  that,  could 
I  see  it  now,  it  would  be  the  same  little  pale  face  which 
used  to  come  stealing  to  me  from  your  father's  bedside 
last  year. 

If  I  ask  you  to  write,  my  love,  believe  it  is  from  no  doubt 
of  you,  or  jealousy  of  any  of  your  home-duties,  but  because 
I  am  wearying  for  a  sight  of  your  handwriting,  and  an  as- 
surance from  yourself  that  you  are  not  failmg  in  health,  the 
only  thing  in  which  I  have  any  fear  of  your  failing. 

To  answer  a  passage  in  your  last,  which  I  have  hitherto 
let  be,  there  was  so  much  besides  to  write  to  you  about — 
the  passage  concerning  friends  parting  from  friends.  At 
first  I  interpreted  it  that  in  your  sadness  of  spirit  and  hope- 
lessness of  the  future  you  wished  me  to  sink  back  into  my 
old  place,  and  be  only  your  friend.  It  was  then  no  time  to 
argue  the  point,  nor  would  it  have  made  any  difference  in 
my  letters  either  way ;  but  now  let  me  say  two  words  con- 
cerning it. 

My  child,  when  a  man  loves  a  woman,  before  he  tries  to 
win  her  he  will  have,  if  he  loves  unselfishly  and  generously, 
many  a  doubt  concerning  both  her  and  himself.  In  fact,  as 
I  once  read  somewhere,  "  When  a  man  truly  loves  a  woman, 
he  would  not  marry  her  uj)on  any  account  unless  he  was 
quite  certain  he  was  the  best  j)erson  she  could  possibly 
marry."  But  as  soon  as  she  loves  him,  and  he  knows  it,  and 
is  certain  that,  however  unworthy  he  may  be,  or  however 
many  faults  she  may  possess — I  never  told  you  you  were 
an  angel,  did  I,  little  lady  ? — they  have  cast  their  lot  to- 
gether, chosen  one  another,  as  your  church  says,  "For 
better  for  worse"  —  then  the  face  of  things  is  entirely 
changed.  He  has  his  rights,  close  and  strong  as  no  other 
human  being  can  have  witli  regard  to  her — slie  has  her- 
self given  them  to  him ;   and  if  he  Jias  any  manliness  in 


A   LIFE    FOR    A   LIFE.  309 

liini  he  never  will  let  them  go,  but  hold  her  fast  forever 
and  ever. 

My  dear  Theodora,  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
again  subsiding  into  your  friend.  I  am  your  lover  and 
your  betrothed  husband.  I  will  wait  for  you  any  number 
of  years,  till  you  have  fulfilled  all  your  duties,  and  no  earth- 
ly rights  have  povrer  to  separate  us  longer.  But,  in  the 
mean  time,  I  hold  fast  to  my  rights.  Every  thing  that 
lover  or  future  husband  can  be  to  you,  I  must  be.  And 
when  I  see  you,  for  I  am  determined  to  see  you  at  inter- 
vals, do  not  suppose  that  it  w^ill  be  a  friend's  kiss — if  there 
be  such  a  thing — that —  But  I  have  said  enough — it  is  not 
easy  for  me  to  ex23ress  myself  on  this  v\'ise. 

My  love,  this  letter  is  partly  to  consult  you  on  a  matter 
which  is  somewhat  on  my  mind.  With  any  but  you  I 
might  hesitate ;  but  I  knovf  your  mind  almost  as  I  know 
my  own,  and  can  sjDeak  to  you  as  I  hope  I  always  shall — 
frankly  and  freely  as  a  husband  would  to  his  wife. 

About  your  sister  Penelope  and  her  great  sorrow  I  have 
already  written  fully.  Of  her  ultimate  recovery,  mentally 
as  Avell  as  bodily,  I  have  Httle  doubt :  she  has  ui  her  the 
"foundations  of  all  endurance — a  true,  upright  nature  and  a 
religious  mind.  The  first  blow  over,  a  certain  little  girl 
whom  I  know  will  be  to  her  a  saving  angel ;  as  she  has 
been  to  others  I  could  name.  Fear  not,  therefore — "  Fear 
God,  and  have  no  other  fear:"  you  will  bring  your  sister 
safe  to  land. 

But,  you  are  aware,  Penelope  is  not  the  only  person  who 
has  been  shipwrecked. 

I  should  not  intrude  this  side  of  the  subject  at  present, 
did  I  not  feel  it  to  be  in  some  degree  a  duty,  and  one  that, 
from  certain  information  that  has  reached  me,  will  not  bear 
deferring.  The  more  so  because  my  occupation  here  ties 
my  own  hands  so  much.  You  and  I  do  not  live  for  our- 
selves, you  know — nor  indeed  wholly  for  one  another.  I 
want  you  to  help  me,  Theodora. 

In  my  last  I  informed  you  how  the  story  of  Lydia  Cart- 
wright  came  to  my  Ivuowledge,  and  how,  beside  her  father's 
cofiin,  I  was  entreated  by  her  old  mother  to  find  her  out, 
and  bring  her  home  if  possible.  I  had  then  no  idea  who 
the  "  gentleman"  was  ;  but  afterward  was  led  to  suspect  it 
might  be  a  friend  of  Mr.  Charteris.  To  assure  myself,  I 
one  day  put  some  questions  to  him — point-blank,  I  believe, 
for  I  abhor  diplomacy,  nor  had  I  any  suspicion  of  him  per- 


310  A    LIFE   FOK   A    LIFE. 

sonally.     In  the  answer,  lie  gave  me  a  point-blank  and  in- 
sulting denial  of  any  knoAvledge  on  the  subject. 

When  the  whole  truth  came  out,  I  was  in  doubt  what  to 
do  consistent  with  my  promise  to  the  poor  girl's  mother. 
Finally,  I  made  inquiries ;  but  heard  that  the  Kensington 
cottage  had  been  sold  up,  and  the  inmates  removed.  I 
then  got  the  address  of  Sarah  Enfield — that  is,  I  commis- 
sioned my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Ansdell,  tq  get  it,  and  sent  it  to 
Mrs.  Cartwright,  without  either  advice  or  explanation,  ex- 
cept that  it  was  that  of  a  person  who  knew  Lydia.  Are 
you  aware  that  Lydia  has  more  than  once  written  to  her 
mother,  sometimes  inclosing  money,  saying  she  was  well 
and  happy,  but  nothing  more  ? 

I  this  morning  heard  that  the  old  woman,  immediately 
on  receiving  my  letter,  shut  up  her  cottage,  leaving  the  key 
with  a  neighbor,  and  disappeared.  But  she  may  come 
back,  and  not  alone ;  I  hope  most  earnestly,  it  will  not  be 
alone.  And  therefore  I  write,  partly  to  prepare  you  for 
this  chance,  that  you  may  contrive  to  keep  your  sister  from 
any  unnecessary  pain,  and  also  from  another  reason. 

You  may  not  know  it — and  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  have  to 
enhghten  my  innocent  love,  but  your  father  is  quite  right ; 
Lydia's  story  is  by  no  means  rare,  nor  is  it  regarded  in  the 
world  as  we  view  it.  There  are  very  few — especially 
among  the  set  to  which  Mr.  Charteris  belonged— who 
either  j^rofess  or  practice  the  Christian  doctrine  that  our 
bodies  also  are  the  temples  of  the  Holy  Spirit — that  a 
man's  life  should  be  as  pure  as  a  woman's,  otherwise  no 
woman,  however  she  may  pity,  can,  or  ought  to  respect 
him,  or  to  marry  him.  This,  it  appears  to  me,  is  the 
Christian  principle  of  love  and  marriage — the  only  one  by 
which  the  one  can  be  made  sacred  and  the  other  "  honor- 
able to  all."  I  have  tried,  invariably,  in  every  way  to  set 
this  forth ;  nor  do  I  hesitate  to  write  of  it  to  my  wife  that 
will  be — whom  it  is  my  blessing  to  have  united  with  me  in 
every  work  which  my  conscience  once  compelled  as  atone- 
ment and  my  heart  now  offers  in  humblest  thanksgiving. 

But  enough  of  myself. 

While  this  principle  of  total  purity  being  essential  for 
both  man  and  woman  can  not  be  too  sternly  upheld,  there 
is  another  side  to  the  subject,  analagous  to  one  of  which 
you  and  I  have  often  spoken.  You  will  find  it  in  the 
seventh  chapter  of  Luke  and  eighth  of  John :  written,  I 
conclude,  to  be  not  only  read,  but   acted  up  to  by  all 


A   LIFE    FOR    A    LIFE.  311 

Christians  who  desire  to  have  in  them  "  the  mind  of 
Christ." 

Now,  my  child,  you  see  what  I  mean — how  the  saving 
command,  "  Go  and  sin  no  ^tnore^^  applies  to  this  sin  also. 

You  know  much  more  of  what  Lydia  Cartwright  used 
to  be  than  I  do ;  but  it  takes  long  for  any  one  error  to 
corrupt  the  entire  character ;  and  her  remembrance  of  her 
mother,  as  well  as  her  charity  to  Sarah  Enfield,  imply  that 
there  must  be  much  good  left  in  the  girl  still.  She  is 
young.  N'or  have  I  heard  of  her  ever  falHng  lower  than 
this  once.  But  she  may  fall ;  since,  from  what  I  know  of 
Mr.  Charteris's  present  circumstances,  she  must  now,  with 
her  child,  be  left  completely  destitute.  It  is  not  the  first 
similar  case,  by  many,  that  I  have  had  to  do  with ;  but  my 
love  never  can  have  met  with  the  like  before.  Is  she 
afraid  ?  does  she  hesitate  to  hold  out  her  pure  right  hand 
to  a  poor  creature  who  never  can  be  an  innocent  girl  again ; 
who  also,  from  the  over  severity  of  Rockmount,  may  have 
been  let  slip  a  little  too  readily,  and  so  gone  wrong  ? 

If  you  do  hesitate,  say  so ;  it  will  not  be  unnatural  nor 
surprising.  If  you  do  not,  this  is  what  I  want ;  bemg  my- 
self so  placed  that,  though  I  feel  the  thing  ought  to  be 
done,  there  seems  no  way  of  doing  it,  except  through  you. 
Should  the  Cartwrights  reappear  in  the  village,  persuade 
your  father  not  altogether  to  set  his  face  against  them,  or 
have  them  expelled  the  neighborhood.  They  must  leave 
— it  is  essential  for  your  sister  that  they  should ;  but  the 
old  woman  is  very  poor.  Do  not  have  them  driven  away 
in  such  a  manner  as  will  place  no  alternative  between  sin 
and  starvation.  Besides,  there  is  the  child — ^how  a  man 
can  ever  desert  his  own  child ! — ^but  I  will  not  enter  into 
that  part  of  the  subject.  This  is  a  strange  'Hove"  letter; 
but  I  write  it  without  hesitation — my  love  will  understand. 

You  will  like  to  hear  something  of  me ;  but  there  is 
*little  to  tell.  The  life  of  a  jail  surgeon  is  not  unlike  that 
of  a  horse  in  a  mill ;  and,  for  some  things,  nearly  as  hope- 
less ;  best  fitted,  perhaps,  for  the  old  and  the  blind.  I  have 
to  shut  my  eyes  to  so  much  that  I  can  not  remedy,  and 
take  patiently  so  much,  to  fight  against  which  would  be 
like  knocking  down  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt  with  one's 
head  as  a  battering-ram,  that  sometimes  my  courage  fails. 

This  great  prison  is,  you  know,  a  model  of  its  kind,  on 
the  solitary,  sanitary,  and  moral  improvement  system ;  ex- 
cellent, no  doubt,  compared  with  that  which  preceded  it. 


312  A   LIFE   FOii    A    LIFE. 

The  prisoners  are  numerous,  and  as  soon  as  any  of  them 
get  out  they  take  the  greatest  pams  to  get  in  again ;  such 
are  the  comforts  of  jail  life  contrasted  with  that  outside. 
Yet  they  seem  to  me  often  like  a  herd  of  brute  beasts, 
fed  and  stalled  by  rule  in  a  manner  best  to  preserve  their 
health,  and  keep  them  from  injuring  their  neighbors ;  their 
bodies  well  looked  after,  but  their  souls — they  might 
scarcely  have  any !  They  are  simply  Nos.  1,2,  3,  and  so 
on,  with  nothing  of  human  mdividuality  or  responsibility 
about  them.  Even  their  faces  grow  to  the  same  pattern, 
dull,  fat,  clean,  and  stolid.  During  the  exercising  hour  I 
sometimes  stand  and  watch  them,  each  pacing  his  small 
bricked  circle,  and  rarely  catch  one  countenance  which  has 
a  ray  of  expression  or  intelligence. 

Good  as  many  of  its  results, are,  I  have  my  doubts  as  to 
this  solitary  system;  but  they  are  expressed  on  paper  in 
the  MS.  you  asked  for,  my  kind  little  lady !  so  I  will  not 
repeat  them  here. 

Yet  it  will  be  a  change  of  thought  from  your  sister's 
sick-room  for  you  to  think  of  me  in  mine — not  a  sick-room 
though,  thank  God  !  This  is  a  most  healthy  region :  the 
sea-wind  sweeps  round  the  prison  walls,  and  shakes  the 
roses  in  the  governor's  garden  till  one  can  hardly  believe 
it  is  so  dreary  a  place  inside.  Dreary  enough  sometimes 
to  make  one  beheve  in  that  reformer  who  offered  to  con- 
vert some  depraved  region  into  a  perfect  Utopia,  provided 
the  males  above  the  age  of  fourteen  were  all  summarily 
hanged. 

Do  you  smile,  my  love,  at  this  comjDhment  to  your  sex  at 
the  expense  of  mine  ?  Yet  I  see  wretches  here  who  I  can 
not  hardly  believe  share  the  same  common  womanhood  as 
my  Theodora.  Think  over  carefully  what  I  asked  you 
about  Lydia  Cartwright ;  it  is  seldom  suddenly,  but  step 
by  step,  that  this  degradation  comes.  And  at  every  step 
there  is  hope ;  at  least,  such  is  my  experience.  ^ 

Do  not  suppose,  from  this  description,  that  I  am  dis- 
heartened at  my  work  here ;  besides  rules  and  regulations, 
there  is  still  much  room  for  personal  influence,  especially  in 
hospital.  When  a  man  is  sick  or  dying,  imconsciously  his 
heart  is  humanized — he  thinks  of  God.  From  this  simple 
cause,  my  calling  has  a  great  advantage  over  all  others ; 
and  it  is  much  to  have  physical  agencies  on  one's  side,  as  I 
do  not  get  them  in  the  streets  and  towns.  To-day,  looking 
up  from  a  clean,  tidy,  airy  cell,  where  the  occupant  had  at 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  313 

least  a  chance  of  learning  to  read  if  he  chose,  and  seeing 
through  the  window  the  patch  of  bright  blue  sky,  fresh 
and  pure  as  ever  sky  was,  I  thought  of  two  lines  you  once 
repeated  to  me  out  of  your  dear  head,  so  full  of  poetry  : 

**  God^s  in  His  Heaven ; 

Ail's  rigiit  with  tlie  world. " 

Yesterday  I  had  a  holiday.  I  took  the  railway  to  Tre- 
herne  Court,  wishing  to  learn  something  of  Rockmount. 
You  said  it  was  your  desire  I  should  visit  your  brother-in- 
law  and  sister  sometimes. 

They  seemed  very  happy — so  much  as  to  be  quite  inde- 
pendent of  visitors,  but  they  received  me  warmly,  and  I 
gained  tidings  of  you.  They  escorted  me  back  as  far  as 
the  park  gates,  where  I  left  them  standing,  talking  and 
laughing  together,  a  very  picture  of  youth  and  fortune  and 
handsome  looks;  a  picture  suited  to  the  place,  with  its 
grand  ancestral  trees  branched  down  to  the  ground;  its 
green  slopes,  and  its  herds  of  deer  racing  about — while  the 
turrets  of  the  magnificent  house  which  they  call  "  home" 
shone  whitely  in  the  distance. 

You  see  I  am  taking  a  leaf  out  of  yom*  book,  growing 
poetical  and  descriptive ;  but  this  brief  contrast  to  my  daily 
life  made  the  impression  particularly  strong. 

You  need  have  no  anxiety  for  your  youngest  sister ;  she 
looked  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  The  late  sad  events 
do  not  seem  to  have  affected  her.  She  merely  observed, 
**  She  was  glad  it  was  over,  she  never  liked  Francis  much. 
Penelope  must  come  to  Treherne  Court  for  change,  and  no 
doubt  she  w^ould  soon  make  a  far  better  marriage."  Her 
husband  said,  "He  and  his  father  had  been  both  grieved 
and  annoyed — indeed.  Sir  William  had  quite  disowned  his 
nephew — such  ungentlemanly  conduct  was  a  disgrace  to 
the  family,"  And  then  Treherne  spoke  about  his  own 
happiness — how  his  father  and  Lady  Augusta  perfectly 
adored  his  wife,  and  how  the  hope  and  pride  of  the  family 
were  centred  in  her,  with  more  to  the  same  purport.  Tru- 
ly this  young  couple  have  their  cup  brimming  over  with 
life  and  its  joys. 

My  love,  good-by ;  which  means  only  "  Ood  be  with 
thee!"  nor  in  any  way  implies  "farewell."  Write  soon. 
Your  words  are,  as  the  Good  Book  expresses  it,  "  sweeter 
than  honey  and  the  honey-comb"  to  me  unworthy. 

Max  Ukquhaet. 
O 


314;  A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE. 

I  should  add,  though  you  would  almost  take  it  for  grant' 
ed,  that,  in  all  you  do  concerning  Mrs.  Cartwright  or  her 
daughter,  I  wish  you  to  do  nothing  without  your  father's 
knowledge  and  consent. 


CHAPT^  XXXII. 

HER   STORY. 

An-qther  bright,  dazzlingly  bright,  summer  morning,  on 
which  I  begin  writing  to  my  dear  Max.  This  seems  the 
longest-lasting,  loveliest  summer  I  ever  knew  outside  the 
house.  WitMn  all  goes  on  much  in  the  same  way,  which 
you  know. 

My  moors  are  all  growmg  pm'ple.  Max ;  I  never  remem- 
ber the  heather  so  rich  and  abundant ;  I  wish  you  could 
see  it.  Sometimes  I  want  you  so !  If  you  had  given  me 
up,  or  were  to  do  so  now  from* hopelessness,  pride,  or  any 
other  reason,  what  would  become  of  me  ?  Max,  hold  me 
fast.     Do  not  let  me  go. 

You  never  do.  I  can  see  how  you  carry  me  in  your 
heart  continually,  and  how  you  are  forever  considering  how 
you  can  help  me  and  mine,  and  if  it  were  not  become  so 
natural  to  feel  this,  so  sweet  to  depend  upon  you  and  ac- 
cept every  thing  from  you  without  even  saying  "thank 
you,"  I  might  begin  to  exj)ress  "  gratitude ;"  but  the  word 
would  make  you  smile. 

I  amused  you  once,  I  remember,  by  an  indignant  dis- 
claimer of  obligations  between  such  as  ourselves;  how 
every  thing  given  and  received  ought  to  be  free  as  air, 
and  how  you  ought  to  take  me  as  readily  if  I  were  heiress 
to  ten  thousand  a  year,  as  I  would  you  if  you  were  the 
Duke  of  N'orthumberland.  IsTo,  Max ;  those  are  not  these 
sort  of  things  that  give  me  toward  you  the  feeling  of 
"gratitude;"  it  is  the  goodness,  the  thoughtfulness,  the 
tender  love  and  care.  I  don't  mean  to  insult  your  sex  by 
saying  no  man  ever  loved  like  you,  but  few  men  love  in 
that  special  way  which  alone  could  have  satisfied  a  restless, 
irritable  girl  like  me,  who  finds  in  you  perfect  trust  and 
perfect  rest. 

If  not  allowed  to  be  grateful  on  my  own  account,  I  may 
be  in  behalf  of  my  sister  Penelope. 

After  thus  long  following  out  your  orders,  medical  and 


A  LIFE   FOB  A  LIFE.  "315 

mental,  I  begin  to  notice  a  slight  change  in  Penelope.  She 
no  longer  hes  in  bed  late,  on  the  plea  that  it  shortens  the 
day,  nor  is  she  so  difficult  to  persuade  in  going  out.  Far- 
ther than  the  garden  she  will  not  stir,  but  there  I  get  her 
to  creep  up  and  down  for  a  little  while  daily.  Lately  she 
has  begun  to  notice  her  flowers,  especially  a  white  moss- 
rose  which  she  took  great  pride  in,  and  which  never  flow- 
ered until  this  summer.  Yesterday  its  first  bud  opened; 
she  stopped  and  examined  it. 

"  Somebody  has  been  mindful  of  this ;  who  was  it  ?" 

I  said,  the  gardener  and  myself  together." 

"  Thank  you."  She  called  John,  showed  him  what  a  good 
bloom  it  was,  and  consulted  how  they  should  manage  to 
get  the  plant  to  flower  again  next  year.  She  can  then  look 
forward  to  "  next  year." 

You  say  that,  as  "  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope,"  with 
the  body,  so,  while  one  ray  of  hope  is  discernible,  the  soul 
is  ahve.  To  save  souls  alive — that  is  your  si^ecial  calling. 
It  seems  as  if  you  yourself  had  been  led  through  deep 
waters  of  despair  in  order  that  you  might  personally  un- 
derstand how  those  feel  who  are  drownmg,  and  therefore 
know  best  how  to  help  them.  And  lately  you  have  in  this 
way  done  more  than  you  know  of.  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  You 
will  not  be  displeased. 

Max,  hitherto  nobody  but  me  has  seen  a  line  of  your  let- 
ters. I  could  not  bear  it.  I  am  as  jealous  over  them  as 
any  old  miser ;  it  has  vexed  me  even  to  see  a  stray  hand 
fingering  them  before  they  reach  mine;  yet  this  week  I 
actually  read  out  loud  two  pages  of  one  of  them  to  Penel- 
ope.    This  was  how  it  came  about. 

I  was  sitting  by  her  sofa,  supposing  her  asleep.  I  had 
been  very  miserable  that  morniDg — tried  much  in  several 
w^ays,  and  I  took  out  your  letter  to  comfort  me.  It  told 
me  of  so  many  miseries,  to  which  my  own  are  nothing,  and 
among  which  you  live  continually,  yet  are  always  so  patient 
and  tender  over  mine.  I  said  to  myself,  "  how  good  he  is !" 
and  two  large  tears  came  with  a  great  splash  upon  the  pa- 
per before  I  was  aware.  Yery  foolish,  you  know,  but  I 
could  not  help  it.  And,  wiping  my  eyes,  I  saw  Penelope's 
wide  open,  watching  me. 

"  Has  Doctor  Urquhart  been  writing  any  thing  to  wound 
you?"  said  she,  slowly  and  bitterly. 

I  eagerly  disclaimed  this. 

"IsheiU?" 


316  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFF. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  God !" 

"  Why  then  were  you  crying  ?" 

Why,  indeed  ?  But  what  could  I  say,  except  the  truth, 
that  they  were  not  tears  of  pain,  but  because  you  were  so 
good  and  I  was  so  proud  of  you  ?  I  forgot  what  arrows 
these  words  must  have  been  into  my  sister's  heart.  No 
wonder  she  spoke  as  she  did — spoke  out  fiercely,  and  yet 
with  a  certain  solemnity. 

''Dora  Johnston,  you  will  reap  what  you  sow,  and  I 
shall  not  pity  you.  Make  to  yourself  an  idol,  and  God  will 
strike  it  down.  '•Tliou  shalt  have  none  other  gods  hut  me? 
Remember  Who  says  that,  and  tremble." 

I  should  have  trembled,  Max,  had  I  not  remembered.  I 
said  to  my  sister,  as  gently  as  I  could,  "that  I  made  no 
idols ;  that  I  knew  all  your  faults,  and  you  mine,  and  we 
loved  one  another  in  spite  of  them,  but  we  did  not  worship 
one  another — only  God.  That,  if  it  were  His  will  we 
should  part,  I  believed  we  could  part.  And — "  here  I 
could  not  say  any  more  for  tears. 

Penelope  looked  sorry. 

"I  remember  you  preaching  that  doctrine  once,  child, 
but — "  she  started  up  violently — "  Can't  you  give  me  some- 
thing to  amuse  me  ?  Kead  me  a  bit  of  that — that  nonsense. 
Of  all  amusing  things  in  this  world,  there  is  nothing  like  a 
love-letter.  But  don't  believe  them,  Dora,"  she  grasped 
my  hand  hard — "  they  are  every  one  of  them  lies." 

I  said  that  I  could  not  judge,  never  having  received  a 
"love-letter"  in  all  my  life,  and  hoped  earnestly  I  never 
might. 

"  IsTo  love-letters  ?  What  does  he  write  to  you  about, 
then?" 

I  told  her  in  a  general  way.  I  would  not  see  her  half- 
satirical,  half-incredulous  smile.  It  did  not  last  very  long. 
Soon,  though  she  turned  away  and  shut  her  eyes,  I  felt  sure 
she  was  both  listening  and  thinking. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart  can  not  have  an  easy  or  pleasant  life," 
she  observed,  "  but  he  does  not  deserve  it.     No  man  does." 

"  Or  woman  either,"  said  I,  as  gently  as  I  could. 

Penelope  bade  me  hold  my  tongue ;  preaching  was  my 
father's  business,  not  mine,  that  is  if  reasonmg  were  of  any 
avail. 

I  asked,  did  she  think  it  was  not  ? 

"I  think  nothmg  about  nothing.  I  want  to  smother 
thought.     Child,  can't  you  talk  a  little  ?     Or  stay,  read  me 


A   LIFE    FOE    A   LIFE.  317 

some  of  Doctor  Urquliart's  letters ;  they  are  not  love-let- 
ters, so  you  can,  have  no  objection." 

It  went  hard,  Max,  indeed  it  did !  tiU  I  considered — 
perhaps,  to  hear  of  people  more  miserable  than  herself, 
more  wicked  than  Francis,  might  not. do  harm  but  good  to 
my  poor  Penelope. 

So  I  was  brave  enough  to  take  out  my  letter  and  read 
from  it  (with  reservations  now  and  then,  of  course),  about 
your  daily  work  and  the  people  concerned  therein ;  all  that 
interests  me  so  much,  ancVmakes  me  feel  haj^pier  and  proud- 
er than  any  mere  "love-letter"  written  to  or  about  myself. 
Penelope  was  interested  too,  both  in  the  jail  and  the  hos- 
pital matters.  They  touched  that  j^ractical,  benevolent, 
energetic  half  of  her,  which  till  lately  has  made  her  papa's 
right  hand  m  the  parish.  I  saw  her  large  black  eyes  bright- 
ening u]),  till  an  unfortunate  name,  upon  which  I  fell  una- 
wares, changed  all. 

Max,  I  am  sure  she  had  heard  of  Tom  Tm'ton.  Francis 
knew  him.  When  I  stoj)ped  with  some  excuse,  she  bade 
me  go  on,  so  I  was  obliged  to  finish  the  miserable  history. 
She  then  asked : 

"IsTurtondead?" 

I  said  "  N'o,"  and  referred  to  the  postscript  where  you 
say  that  both  yourself  and  his  poor  old  ruined  father  hope 
Tom  Turton  may  yet  live  to  amend  his  ways. 

Penelope  muttered : 

"  He  never  will.     Better  he  died." 

I  said  Dr.  Urquhart  did  not  think  so. 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently,  exclaiming  she  was  tired, 
and  wished  to  hear  no  more,  and  so  fell  into  one  of  her 
long,  sullen  silences,  which  sometimes  last  for  hours. 

I  wonder  whether,  among  the  many  cruel  things  she 
must  lie  thinking  about,  she  ever  thinks,  as  I  do  often,  what 
has  become  of  Francis  ? 

Sometimes,  puzzling  over  how  best  to  deal  with  her,  I 
have  tried  to  imagine  myself  in  her  place,  and  consider  what 
would  have  been  my  own  feelings  toward  Francis  now. 
The  sharpest  and  most  prominent  would  be  the  ever-abiding 
sense  of  his  degradation — he  who  was  so  dear — united  to 
the  constant  terror  of  his  sinking  lower  and  lower  to  any 
depth  of  crime  or  shame.  To  think  of  him  as  a  bad  man, 
a  sinner  against  heaven,  would  be  tenfold  worse  than  any 
sin  or  cruelty  against  me. 

Therefore,  whether  or  not  her  love  for  him  has  died  out, 


318  A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

I  can  not  help  thinking  there  must  be  times  when  Penelope 
would  give  any  thing  for  tidings  of  Francis,  Charteris.  I 
wish  you  would  find  out  whether  he  has  left  England,  and 
then  perhaps  in  some  way  or  other  I  may  let  Penelope  un- 
derstand that  he  is  safe  away — possibly  to  begin  a  new  and 
better  life,  in  a  new  world. 

A  new  and  better  life.  This  phrase — ^Penelope  might 
call  it  our  "  cant,"  yet  what  w^e  solemnly  believe  in  is  sure- 
ly not  cant — ^brings  me  to  something  I  have  to  tell  you  this 
week.  For  some  reasons  I  am  glad  it  did  not  occur  until 
this  week,  that  I  might  have  time  for  consideration. 

Max,  if  you  remember,  when  you  made  to  me  that  re- 
quest about  Lydia  Cartwright,  I  merely  answered  "  that  I 
would  endeavor  to  do  as  you  wished,",  as,  indeed,  I  always 
would,  feeling  that  my  duty  to  you,  even  in  the  matter  of 
"  obedience,"  has  already  begun.  I  mean  to  obey,  you  see, 
but  would  rather  do  it  with  my  heart,  as  well  as  my  con- 
science. So,  hardly  knowmg  what  to  say  to  you,  I  just 
said  this,  and  no  more. 

My  hfe  has  been  so  still,  so  safely  shut  up  from  the  out- 
side world,  that  there  are  many  subjects  I  have  never  even 
thought  about,  and  this  was  one.  After  the  first  great 
shock  concerning  Francis,  I  put  it  aside,  hopmg  to  forget 
it.  When  you  revived  it,  I  was  at  first  startled ;  then  I 
tried  to  pander  it  over  carefully,  so  as  to  come  to  a  right 
judgment  and  be  enabled  to  act  in  every  way  as  became 
not  only  myself,  Theodora  Johnston,  but — let  me  not  be 
ashamed  to  say  it — ^Theodora,  Max  Urquhart's  wife. 

By-and-by  all  became  clear  to  me.  My  dear  Max,  I  do 
not  hesitate ;  I  am  not  afraid.  I  have  been  only  waiting 
ojD^ortunity,  which  at  length  came. 

Last  Sunday  I  overheard  my  class — Penelope's  that  was, 
you  know — whispering  something  among  themselves,  and 
trying  to  hide  it  from  me.  When  I  put  the  question  di- 
rect, the  answer  was : 

"Please,  Miss,  Mrs.  Cartwright  and  Lydia  have  come 
home." 

I  felt  myself  grow  hot  as  fire — ^I  do  now  in  telhng  you. 
Only  it  must  be  borne — it  must  be  told. 

Also,  another  thing,  which  one  of  the  bigger  girls  let  out, 
with  many  titters,  and  never  a  blush,  they  had  brought  a 
child  with  them. 

Oh,  Max,  the  horror  of  shame  and  repulsion,  and  then 
the  perfect  anguish  of  pity  that  came  over  me !      These 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  319 

girls  of  our  parisli — Lydia  was  one  of  them  ;  if  they  had 
been  taught  better ;  if  I  had  tried  to  teach  them,  instead 
of  all  these  years  studying  or  dreaming,  thinking  wholly 
of  myself  and  caring  not  a  straw  about  my  fellow-creatures. 
Oh,  Max,  would  that  my  life  had  been  more  like  yours  ! 

It  shall  be  henceforth.  Going  home  through  the  village, 
with  the  sun  shining  on  the  cottages,  of  whose  inmates  I 
know  no  more  than  of  the  New  Zealand  savages — on  the 
group  of  ragged  girls  who  were  growing  up  at  our  very 
door,  no  one  knows  how,  and  no  one  cares — I  made  a  vow 
to  myself.  I  that  have  been  so  blessed — I  that  am  so  hap- 
py— ^yes,  Max,  happy !  I  will  work  with  all  my  strength 
while  it  is  day.  You  will  help  me.  And  you  will  never 
love  me  the  less  for  any  thing  I  feel — or  do. 

I  was  going  that  very  afternoon  to  walk  direct  to  Mrs. 
Cartwright's,  when  I  remembered  your  charge,  that  noth- 
ing should  be  attempted  without  my  father's  knowledge 
and  consent. 

I  took  the  opportunity  when  he  and  I  were  sitting  alone 
together— Penelope  gone  to  bed.  He  was  saying  she  look- 
ed better.  He  thought  she  might  begin  visiting  in  the 
district  soon,  if  she  were  properly  persuaded.  At  least, 
she  might  take  a  stroll  romid  the  village.  He  should  ask 
her  to-morrow. 

"  Don't  papa.  Oh,  pray  don't !"  and  then  I  was  obhged 
to  tell  him  the  reason  why.  I  had  to  put  it  very  plainly 
before  he  understood ;  he  forgets  things  now  sometimes. 

"  Starving,  did  you  say  ?  Mrs.  Cartwright,  Lydia,  and 
the  child?     What  child?" 

"Francis's." 

Then  he  comprehended,  and,  oh,  Max,  had  I  been  the  gii'l 
I  was  a  few  months  ago,  I  should  have  sunk  to  the  earth 
with  the  shame  he  said  I  ought  to  feel  at  even  alluding  to 
such  things.  But  I  would  not  stop  to  consider  this,  or  to 
defend  myself;  the  matter  concerned  not  me,  but  Lydia. 
I  asked  papa  if  he  did  not  remember  Lydia  ? 

She  came  to  us.  Max,  when  she  was  only  fourteen,  though, 
being  well-grown  and  handsome,  she  looked  older ;  a  pleas- 
ant, willing,  aifectionate  creature,  only  she  had  "  no  head," 
or  it  was  half-turned  by  the  admiration  her  beauty  gained, 
not  merely  among  her  own  class,  but  all  our  visitors.  I 
remember  Francis  saying  once — oh,  how  angry  Penelope 
was  about  it — that  Lydia  was  so  naturally  elegant  she  could 
be  made  a  lady  in  no  time,  if  a  man  liked  to  take  her,  edu- 


320  A   LIFE   FOK    A   LIFE. 

cate,  and  many  Iier.  Would  he  had  done  it !  spite  of  all 
broken  vows  to  Penelope.  I  think  my  sister  herself  might 
have  forgiven  him,  if  he  had  only  honestly  fsMen  in  love  with 
poor  Lyclia  and  married  her. 

These  thmgs  I  tried  to  recall  to  papa's  mind,,  but  he  an- 
grily bade  me  be  silent^ 

"  I  can  not,"  I  said,  "  because,  if  we  had  taken  better 
care  of  the  girl,  this  might  never  have  happened.  When  I 
think  of  her — her  pleasant  ways  about  the  house — how  she 
used  to  go  singing  over  her  w^ork  of  mornings,  poor  inno- 
cent young  thing,  oh,  papa !  papa  1" 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  eying  me  closely,  "  what  change  has 
come  over  you  of  late  ?" 

I  said  I  did  not  know,  unless  it  was  that  which  must 
come  over  people  who  have  been  very  unhappy — the  wish, 
to  save  other  people  as  much  uniiappiness  as  they  can.. 

"  Explain  yourself.     I  do  not  understand." 

When  he  did,  he  said  abruptly, 

"  Stop.  It  was  well  you  waited  to  consult  with  me.  If 
your  own  delicacy  does  not  teach  you  better,  I  must.  My 
daughter — ^the  daughter  of  the  clergyman  of  the  parish- — 
can  not  possibly  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  these  profli- 
gates." 

My  heart  sunk  like  lead. 

"  But  you,  papa  ?  They  are  her^e  ;  you,  as  the  rector, 
must  do  something.    What  shall  you  do  ?" 

He  thought  a  little. 

"  I  shall  forbid  them  the  church  and  the  sacrament,  omit 
them  from  my  charities,  and  take  every  lawful  means  to  get 
them  out  of  the  neighborhood.  This,  for  my  family's  sake 
and  the  parish's,  that  they  may  carry  their  corruption  else- 
where." 

"  But  they  may  not  be  wholly  corrupt.  And  the  child 
— that  innocent,  unfortunate  child  1" 

"Silence,  Dora.  It  is  written  '-TTie  seed  of  evil-doers 
shall  never  he  renowned.  The  sinless  must  suffer  with  the 
guilty ;  there  is  no  hope  for  either." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  I  cried,  in  an  agony,  "  Christ  did  not  say  so. 
He  said,  '  G-o^  and  sin  no  more.''  " 

Was  I  wrong  ?  If  I  was,  I  suffered  for  it.  What  fol- 
lowed was  very  hard  to  bear. 

Max,  if  ever  I  am  yours,  altogether  in  your  power,  I  won- 
der will  you  ever  give  me  those  sort  of  bitter,  cruel  words  ? 
Words  which  people,  living  under  the  same  roof,  think  noth- 


A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE.  321 

ing  of  using,  mean  nothing  by  them,  yet  they  cut  sharp  hke 
swords.  The  flesh  closes  up  after  them,  but  oh,  they  bleed 
—they  bleed !  Dear  Max,  reprove  me  as  you  will,  how- 
ever much,  but  let  it  be  in  love,  not  in  anger  or  sarcasm. 
Sometimes  people  drop  carelessly,  by  quiet  firesides,  and 
with  a  good-night  kiss  following,  as  papa  gave  to  me,  words 
which  leave  a  scar  for  years. 

Next  day  I  was  just  about  to  write  and  ask  you  to  find 
some  other  plan  for  helping  the  Cartwrights,  since  we  nei- 
ther of  us  would  choose  to  persist  in  one  duty  at  the  ex- 
pense of  another,  when  papa  called  me  to  take  a  walk  with 
him. 

Is  it  not  strange  the  way  in  which  good  angels  seem  to 
take  up  the  thread  of  our  dropped  hopes  and  endeavors 
and  wind  them  up  for  us,  we  see  not  how,  till  it  is  all  done  ? 
N^ever  was  I  more  surprised  than  when  papa,  stopping  to 
lean  on  my  arm,  and  catch  the  warm,  pleasant  wuid  that 
came  over  the  moors,  said  suddenly : 

"Dora,  what  could  possess  you  to  talk  to  me  as  you  did 
last  night  ?  And  why,  if  you  had'^any  definite  scheme  in 
your  head,  did  you  relinquish  it  so  easily?" 

"  Papa,  you  forbade  it." 

"  So,  even  Avhen  differing  from  your  father,  you  consider 
it  right  to  obey  him  ?" 

"  Yes — except — " 

"  Say  it  out,  child." 

"  Except  in  the  case  of  any  duty  which  I  felt  to  be  not 
less  sacred  than  the  one  I  owe  to  my  father." 

He  made  no  reply. 

Walking  on,  we  passed  Mrs.  Cartwright's  cottage.  It 
was  quiet  and  silent,  the  door  open,  but  the  window-shut- 
ter half  closed,  and  there  was  no  smoke  from  the  chimney. 
I  saw  papa  turn  round  and  look.  At  last  he  said,  "  What 
did  you  mean  by  telling  me  they  were  '  starving  ?'  " 

I  answered  the  direct,  entire  truth.  I  w^as  bold,  for  it 
was  your  mind  as  weU  as  my  own  I  was  speaking  out,  and 
I  knew  it  was  right.  I  pleaded  chiefly  for  the  child — it 
was  easiest  to  think  of  it,  the  little  creature  I  had  seen 
laughing  and  crowing  in  the  garden  at  Kensington.  It 
seemed  such  a  dreadful  thing  for  that  helpless  baby  to  die 
of  want,  or  five  to  turn  out  a  reprobate. 

"  Think,  papa,"  I  cried,  "  if  that  poor  little  soul  had  been 
our  own  flesh  and  blood — if  you  were  Francis's  father,  and 
this  had  been  your  grandchild !" 

02 


322  A   LIFE    FOK   A   LIFJi]. 

To  my  sorrow,  I  had  forgotten  for  the  tune  a  part  of 
poor  Harry's  story — the  beginning  of  it ;  you  shall  know 
it  some  day — it  is  all  passed  now.  But  papa  remembered 
it.  He  faltered  as  he  walked — at  last  he  sat  down  on  a 
tree  by  the  road-side  and  said,  "  he  must  go  home." 

Yet  still,  either  by  accident  or  design,  he  took  the  way 
by  the  lane  where  is  Mrs.  Cartwright's  cottage.  At  the 
gate  of  it  a  little  ragged  urchin  was  poking  a  rosy  face 
through  the  bars ;  and,  seeing  papa,  this  small  fellow  gave 
a  shout  of  delight,  tottered  out,  and  caught  hold  of  his  coat, 
calling  him  "  Daddy."  He  started — ^I  thought  he  would 
have  fallen,  he  trembled  so :  my  poor  old  father. 

When  I  lifted  the  little  thing  out  of  his  way,  I  too  start- 
ed. It  is  strange  always  to  see  a  face  you  know  revived 
in  a  child's  face ;  in  this  instance  it  was  shocking — pitiful. 
My  first  thought  was,  we  never  must  let  Penelope  come 
past  this  way.  I  was  carrying  the  boy  off — I  well  knew 
where,  when  papa  called  me. 

"  Stop.     Not  alone — not  without  your  father." 

It  was  but  a  few  steps,  and  we  stood  on  the  door-sill  of 
Mrs.  Cartwright's  cottage.  The  old  woman  snatched  up 
the  child,  and  I  heard  her  whisper  something  about  "  Run 
— ^Lyddy — run  away." 

But  Lydia,  if  that  white,  thin  creature,  huddled  up  in 
the  corner,  were  she,  never  attempted  to  move. 

Papa  walked  up  to  her. 

"Young  woman,  are  you  Lydia  Cartwright,  and  is  this 
your  child  ?" 

"  Have  you  been  meddling  with  him  ?  You'd  better 
not !  I  say,  Franky,  what  have  they  been  doing  to  moth- 
er's Franky?" 

She  caught  at  him,  and  hugged  him  close,  as  mothers  do. 
And  when  the  boy,  evidently  both  attracted  and  puzzled  by 
papa's  height  and  gentlemanly  clothes,  tried  to  get  back  to 
him,  and  again  called  him  "  Daddy,"  she  said  angrily,  "  No, 
no,  'tis  not  your  daddy.  They're  no  friends  o'  yours.  I 
wish  they  were  out  of  the  place,  Franky,  boy." 

"  You  wish  us  away.  No  wonder.  Are  you  not  ashamed 
to  look  us  in  the  face — my  daughter  and  me  ?" 

But  papa  might  have  said  ever  so  much  more,  without 
her  heeding.  The  child  having,  settled  himself  on  her  lap, 
playing  with  the  ragged  counterpane  that  wrapped  her  in- 
stead of  a  shawl,  Lydia  seemed  to  care  for  nothing.  She 
lay  back  with  her  eyes  shut,  still,  and  white.  We  may  be 
sure  of  one  thing — she  has  preferred  to  starve. 


A   LIFE   POE   A  LIFE.  •  323 

"Diinnot  be  too  hard  upon  her,  su*,"  begged  the  old 
woman.  "  Dunnot,  please,  Miss  Dora.  She  bean't  a  lady 
like  you,  and  he  were  such  a  fine  coaxing  young  gentleman. 
It's  he  that's  most  to  blame." 

My  father  said  sternly,  "  Has  she  left  him,  or  been  desert- 
ed by  him — I  mean  Mr.  Francis  Chart eris  ?" 

"  Mother,"  screamed  Lydia,  "v/hat's  that?  What  have 
they  come  for  ?     Do  they  know  any  thing  about  him  ?" 

S)he  did  not,  then. 

"  Be  quiet,  my  lass,"  said  the  mother,  soothingly,  but  it 
was  of  no  use. 

"  Miss  Dora,"  cried  the  girl,  creeping  to  me,  and  speak- 
ing Jn  the  same  sort  of  childish,  pitiful  tone  in  which  she 
used  to  come  and  beg  Lisabel  and  me  to  intercede  for  her 
when  she  had  annoyed  Penelope,  "  do,  jViiss  Dora,  tell  me. 
I  don't  want  to  see  him,  I  only  want  to  hear.  I've  heard 
nothing  since  he  sent  me  a  letter  from  prison,  saying  I  was 
to  take  my  things  and  the  baby's  and  go.  I  don't  know 
what's  become  of  him,  no  more  than  the  dead.  And,  miss, 
he's  that  boy's  father — ^miss — ^please — " 

She  tried  to  go  down  to  her  knees,  but  fell  prone  on  the 
floor. 

Max,  who  would  have  thought,  the  day  before,  that  this 
day  I  should  have  been  sitting  mth  Lydia  Cartwright's 
head  on  my  lap,  trying  to  bring  her  back  to  this  miserable 
life  of  hers ;  that  papa  would  have  stood  by  and  seen  me 
do  it  without  a  word  of  blame ! 

"It's  the  hunger,"  cried  the  mother.  "You  see,  she 
isn't  used  to  it  now ;  he  always  kept  her  like  a  lady." 

Papa  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  cottage.  I  afterward 
found  out  that  he  had  bought  the  loaf  at  the  baker's  shop 
down  the  village,  and  got  the  bottle  of  wine  from  his  pri- 
vate cupboard  in  the  vestry.  He  returned  with  both — one 
in  each  pocket — ^then,  sitting  down  on  the  chair,  cut  the 
bread  and  poured  out  the  wine,  and  fed  these  three  himself, 
with  his  own  hands.     My  dear  father ! 

Nor  did  he  draw  back  when,  as  she  recovered,  the  first 
word  that  came  to  the  wretched  girl's  hps  was  "  Francis." 

"  Mother,  beg  them  to  tell  me  about  him.  I'll  do  him 
no  harm,  indeed  I  won't,  neither  him  nor  them.  Is  he  mar- 
ried ?  Or,"  with  a  sudden  gasp,  "  is  he  dead  ?  I've  thought 
sometimes  he  must  be,  or  he  never  would  have  left  the  child 
and  me.     He  was  always  fond  of  us,  wasn't  he,  Franky  ?" 

I  told  her,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  Mr.  Charteris 


324  A   LIFE    FOE   A   LIFE. 

was  still  living,  but  what  liad  become  of  him  we  could  none 
of  us  guess.     We  never  saw  him  now. 

Here,  looking  wistfully  at  me,  Lydia  seemed  suddenly  to 
remember  old  times,  to  become  conscious  of  what  she  used 
to  be,  and  what  she  was  now.  Also,  in  a  vague  sort  of 
way,  of  how  guilty  she  had  been  toward  her  mistress  and 
our  family.  How  long,  or  how  deep  the  feeling  was,  I  can 
not  judge,  but  she  certainly  did  feel.  She  hung  her  head, 
and  tried  to  draw  herself  away  from  my  arm. 

"  I'd  rather  not  trouble  you.  Miss  Dora,  thank  you."' 

I  said  it  was  no  trouble,  she  had  better  lie  still  till  she 
felt  stronger. 

"  You  don't  mean  that.     I^ot  such  as  me."  ^ 

I  told  her  she  must  know  she  had  done  very  wrong,  but 
if  she  was  sorry  for  it,  I  was  sorry  for  her,  and  we  would 
hel}3  her  if  we  could  to  an  honest  livelihood. 

"  What,  and  the  child  too  ?" 

I  looked  toward  papa ;  he  answered  distinctly,  but  stern- 
ly :  "  Principally  for  the  sake  of  the  child." 

Lydia  began  to  sob.  She  attempted  no  exculpation — 
expressed  no  penitence — -just  lay  and  sobbed,  like  a  child. 
She  is  hardly  more,  even  yet — only  nineteen,  I  believe.  So 
we  sat — ^papa  as  silent  as  we,  resting  on  his  stick,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  cottage  floor,  till  Lydia  turned  to  me 
with  a  sort  of  fright. 

"  What  would  Miss  Johnston  say  if  she  knew  ?" 

I  wondered,  indeed,  what  my  sister  would  say. 

And  here,  Max — ^you  will  hardly  credit  it,  nobody  would, 
if  it  were  an  incident  in  a  book — something  occurred  which, 
even  now,  seems  hardly  possible — as  if  I  must  have  dream- 
ed it  all. 

Through  the  open  cottage  door  a  lady  walked  right  in, 
looked  at  us  all,  including  the  child,  who  stopped  in  its 
munching  of  bread  to  stare  at  her  with  wide-open  blue  eyes 
— Francis's  eyes ;  and  that  lady  was  my  sister  Penelope. 

She  walked  in  and  walked  out  again,  before  we  had  our 
wits  about  us  sufficiently  to  speak  to  her,  and  when  I  rose 
and  ran  after  her,  she  had  slipped  away  somehow,  so  that 
I  could  not  find  her.  How  she  came  to  take  this  notion 
into  her  head,  after  being  for  weeks  shut  up  indoors ;  wheth- 
er she  had  discovered  that  the  Cartwrights  had  returned 
and  came  here  in  anger,  or  else,  prompted  by  some  restless 
instinct,  to  have  another  look  at  Francis's  child — none  of 
us  can  guess ;  nor  have  we  ever  dared  to  inquire. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  325 

When  we  got  home,  she  was  lying  in  her  nsual  place  on 
the  sofa,  as  if  she  wanted  us  not  to  notice  that  she  had 
been  out  at  all.  Still,  by  papa's  desire,  I  spoke  to  her 
frankly — told  her  the  circumstances  of  our  visit  to  the  two 
women — the  destitution  in  which  we  found  them ;  and 
how  they  should  be  got  away  from  the  village  as  soon  as 
possible. 

She  made  no  answer  whatever,  but  lay  absorbed,  as  it 
were — ^hardly  moving,  except  an  occasional  nervous  twitch, 
all  afternoon  and  evening,  until  I  called  her  in  to  prayers, 
which  were  shorter  than  usual — papa  being  very  tu'ed. 
He  only  read  the  collect,  and  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
in  which,  among  the  voices  that  folio v/ed  his,  I  distinguished, 
with  surprise,  Penelope's.  It  had  a  steadiness  and  sweet- 
ness such  as  I  never  heard  before.  And  when — the  serv- 
ants being  gone  —  she  went  up  to  papa,  and  kissed  him, 
the  change  in  her  manner  was  something  almost  startling. 

"  Father,  when  shall  you  want  me  in  the  district  again  ?" 
said  she. 

"  My  dear  giii !" 

"Because  I  am  quite  ready  to  go.  I  have  been  ill,  and 
it  has  made  me  unmindful  of  many  things ;  but  I  am  better 
now.  Papa,  I  will  try  to  be  a  good  daughter  to  you.  I 
have  nobody  but  you." 

She  spoke  quietly  and  softly,  bending  her  head  upon  his 
gray  hairs.  He  kissed  and  blessed  her.  She  kissed  me, 
too,  as  she  passed,  and  then  went  away  to  bed,  without  any 
more  explanation. 

But  from  that  time — and  it  is  now  three  days  ago — Pe- 
nelope has  resumed  her  usual  place  in  the  household — taken 
up  all  her  old  duties,  and  even  her  old  pleasures ;  for  I  saw 
her  in  her  green-house  this  morning.  When  she  called  me, 
in  something  of  the  former  quick,  imperative  voice,  to  look 
at  an  air-plant  that  was  just  coming  into  flower,  I  could  not 
see  it  for  tears. 

N'evertheless,  there  is  in  her  a  difference.  N'ot  her  seri- 
ous, almost  elderly-looking  face,  nor  her  manner,  which  has 
lost  its  sharpness,  and  is  so  gentle  sometimes  that  when  she 
gives  her  orders  the  servants  actually  stare — but  the  mar- 
velous composure  which  is  evident  in  her  whole  demeanor ; 
the  bearing  of  a  person  who,  having  gone  through  that 
sharp  agony  which  either  kills  or  cures,  is  henceforth  set- 
tled in  mind  and  circumstances,  to  feel  no  more  any  strong 
emotion,  but  go  through  life  placidly  and  patiently,  with- 


326  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

out  much  farther  change,  to  the  end.  The  sort  of  women 
that  nuns  are  made  ol^ — or  Soeurs  de  la  Charite ;  or  Prot- 
estant lay -sisters,  of  whom  every  village  has  some ;  and  al- 
most every  family  owns  at  least  one.  She  will,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, be  our  one — our  elder  sister,  to  be  regarded  with 
reverence  unspeakable,  and  be  made  as  happy  as  we  pos- 
sibly can.  Max,  I  am  learning  to  think  with  hope  and 
without  pain  of  the  future  of  my  sister  Penelope. 

One  word  more,  and  this  long  letter  ends. 

Yesterday,  papa  and  I  walking  on  the  moor  met  Mrs. 
Cartwright,  and  learned  full  particulars  of  Lydia.  From 
your  direction,  her  mother  found  her  out,  in  a  sort  of  fever, 
brought  on  by  want.  Of  course,  every  thing  had  been 
taken  from  the  Kensington  cottage,  for  Francis's  debts. 
She  was  turned  out  with  only  the  clothes  she  wore.  But 
you  know  all  this  already,  through  Mrs.  Ansdell. 

Mrs.  Cartwright  is  sure  it  was  you  who  sent  Mrs.  Ans- 
dell to  them,  and  that  the  money  they  received  week  by 
week  in  their  worst  distress  came  from  you.  She  said  so 
to  papa  while  we  stood  talking. 

"  For  it  was  just  like  our  doctor,  sir — as  is  kind  to  poor 
and  rich — Pm  sure  he  used  to  look  at  you,  sir,  as  if  he'd 
do  any  thing  in  the  world  for  you — as  many's  the  time  Pve 
seed  him  a-sitting  by  your  bedside  when  you  was  ill.  If 
there  ever  was.  a  man  living  as  did  good  to  every  poor  soul 
as  came  in  his  way,  it  be  Doctor  Urquhart." 

Papa  said  nothing. 

After  the  old  woman  had  gone,  he  asked  if  I  had  any 
plans  about  Lydia  Cartwright. 

I  had  one,  which  we  must  consult  about  when  she  is  bet- 
ter— whether  she  might  not,  with  her  good  education,  be 
made  one  of  the  schoolmistresses  that  you  say  go  from  cell 
to  cell  instructing  the  female  prisoners  in  these  model  jails. 
But  I  hesitated  to  start  this  project  to  papa,  so  told  him  I 
must  think  the  matter  over. 

"  You  are  growing  quite  a  thinking  woman,  Dora ;  who 
taught  you — who  put  it  into  your  mind  to  act  as  you  do? 
you,  who  were  such  a  thoughtless  girl.  Speak  out,  I  want 
to  know." 

I  told  him,  naming  the  name  of  my  dear  Max,  the  first 
time  it  has  ever  j)assed  my  lips  in  my  father's  hearing  since 
that  day.     It  was  received  in  silence. 

Some  time  after,  stopping  suddenly,  papa  said  to  me, 
"  Dora,  some  day,  I  know  you  will  go  and  marry  Doctor 
Urquhart." 


A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  327 

What  could  I  say?  Deny  it — deny  Max — my  love  and 
my  husband  ?  or  tell  my  father  what  was  not  true  ?  Ei- 
ther was  impossible. 

So  we  walked  on,  avoiding  conversation  until  we  came 
to  oui*  own  church-yard,  where  we  went  m  and  sat  in  the 
porch,  sheltering  from  the  noon  heat,  which  papa  feels  more 
than  he  used  to  do.  When  he  took  my  arm  to  walk  home, 
his  anger  had  vanished ;  he  spoke  even  with  a  sort  of  mel- 
ancholy. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  my  dear,  but  the  world  is  alter- 
ing fast.  People  preach  strange  doctrines,  and  act  in 
strange  ways,  such  as  were  never  thought  of  when  I  was 
young.  It  may  be  for  good  or  for  evil — I  shall  find  out  by- 
and-by.  I  was  dreaming  of  your  mother  last  night ;  you 
are  growing  very  like  her,  child."  Then  suddenly,  "  Only 
wait  till  I  am  dead,  and  you  will  be  free,  Theodora." 

My  heart  felt  bursting ;  oh.  Max,  you  do  not  mind  me 
telling  you  these  things  ?  What  should  I  do  if  I  could  not 
thus  open  my  heart  to  you  ? 

Yet  it  is  not  altogether  with  grief  or  without  hope  that 
I  have  thought  over  what  then  passed  between  papa  and 
me.  He  knows  you — ^knows,  too,  that  neither  you  nor  I 
have  ever  deceived  him  in  any  thing.  He  was  fond  of  you 
once ;  I  think  sometimes  he  misses  you  still,  in  little  things 
wherein  you  used  to  pay  him  attention,  less  like  a  friend 
than  a  son. 

Now,  Max,  do  not  think  I  am  grieving — do  not  imagine 
I  have  cause  to  grieve.  They  are  as  kind  to  me  as  ever 
they  can  be.  My  home  is  as  happy  as  any  home  could  be 
made,  except  one,  which^'^hether  we  shall  ever  find  or  not, 
God  knows.  In  quiet  evenings  such  as  this,  when,  after  a 
rainy  day,  it  has  just  cleared  up  in  time  for  the  sun  to  go 
down,  and  he  is  going  down  peacefully  in  amber  glory, 
Avith  the  trees  standing  up  so  purple  and  still,  and  the  moor- 
lands lying  bright,  and  the  hills  distinct,  even  to  their  very 
last  faint  rim — in  such  evenuigs  as  this.  Max,  when  I  want 
you  and  can  not  fiind  you,  but  have  to  learn  to  sit  still  by 
myself,  as  now,  I  learn  to  think  also  of  the  meeting  which 
has  no  farewell,  of  the  rest  that  comes  to  all  in  time,  of 
the  eternal  home.     We  shall  reach  that  some  day. 

Your  faithful  Theodoba. 


328  A  LIFE   FOE  A  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

HIS    STOEY. 

Treherne  Courts  Sunday  night. 

My  deae  Theodoea, — ^The  answer  to  my  telegram  has 
just  arrived,  and  I  find  it  is  your  sister  whom  we  are  to 
expect,  not  you.  I  shall  meet  her  myself  by  the  night  train, 
Treherne  being  quite  incapable  ;  indeed,  he  will  hardly  stir 
from  the  corridor  that  leads  to  his  wife's  room. 

You  will  have  heard  already  that  the  heir  so  ardently 
looked  for  has  only  lived  a  few  hours.  Lady  Augusta's 
letters,  which  she  gave  me  to  address,  and  I  took  care  to 
post  myself,  would  have  assured  you  of  your  sister's  safety, 
though  it  was  long  doubtful.  It  will  comfort  you  to  know 
that  she  is  in  excellent  care,  both  her  medical  attendants 
being  known  to  me  professionally,  and  Lady  Augusta  be- 
ing a  real  mother  to  her  in  tenderness  and  anxiety. 

You  will  wonder  how  I  came  here.  It  was  by  accident 
— ^taldng  a  Saturday  holiday,  which  is  advisable  now  and 
then;  and  Treherne's  mother  detained  me  as  being  the 
only  person  who  had  any  control  over  her  son.  Poor  fel- 
low !  he  was  almost  out  of  his  mind.  He  never  had  any 
trouble  before,  and  he  knows  not  how  to  bear  it.  He  trem^ 
bled  in  terror — thus  coming  face  to  face  with  that  messeiv 
ger  of  God  Avho  puts  an  end  to  all  merely  mortal  joys — - 
was  paralyzed  at  the  fear  of  losing  his  blessings,  which,  nu- 
merous as  they  are,  are  all  of  this  world.  My  love,  whom 
I  thought  to  have  seen  to-night,  but  shall  not  see — for  how 
long  ? — ^things  are  more  equally  balanced  than  w^e  suppose. 

You  will  be  sorry  about  the  little  one.  Treherne  seems 
indifierent,  his  whole  thought  being  naturally  his  wife ;  but 
Sir  William  is  grievously  disappointed.  A  son,  too — and 
he  had  planned  bonfires,  and  bell-ringings,  and  rejoicings 
all  over  the  estate.  When  he  stood  looking  at  the  little 
w^hite  lump  of  clay,  which  is  the  only  occupant  of  the  grand 
nursery  prepared  for  the  heir  of  Treherne  Court,  I  heard 
the  old  man  sigh  as  if  for  a  great  misfortune. 

You  will  think  it  none,  since  your  sister  lives.  Be  quite 
content  about  her — which  is  easy  for  me  to  say,  when  I  know 
how  long  and  anxious  the  days  -will  room  at  Rockmount. 


A   LIFE   FOE  A   LIFE.  329 

It  might  have  been  better  for  some  things  if  yon,  rather 
than  Miss  Johnston,  had  come  to  take  charge  of  your  sis- 
ter during  her  recovery,  but  maybe  all  is  well  as  it  is. 
To-morrow  I  shall  leave  this  great  house,  with  its  many 
happinesses,  which  have  run  so  near  a  chance  of  being  over- 
thrown, and  go  back  to  my  own  solitary  life,  in  which  noth- 
ing of  personal  interest  ever  visits  me  but  Theodora's  let- 
ters. 

There  were  two  things  I  intended  to  tell  you  in  my  Smi- 
day  letter ;  shall  I  say  them  still  ?  for  the  more  things  you 
have  to  think  about  the  better,  and  one  of  them  was  my 
reason  for  suggesting  your  presence  here  rather  than  your 
eldest  sister's.  (Do  not  imagine,  though,  your  coming  was 
urged  by  me  wholly  for  other  people's  sakes.  The  sight 
of  you  just  for  a  few  hours — one  hour —  People  talk  of 
water  in  the  desert — ^the  thought  of  a  green  field  to  those 
who  have  been  months  at  sea — well,  that  is  what  a  glimpse 
of  your  little  face  would  be  to  me.  But  I  can  not  get  it, 
and  I  must  not  moan.) 

What  was  I  writing  about  ?  Oh !  to  bid  you  tell  Mrs. 
Cartwright  from  me  that  her  daughter  is  well  in  health, 
and  doing  w^ell.  After  her  two  months'  probation  here, 
the  governor,  to  whom  alone  I  communicated  her  history 
(names  omitted),  pronounces  her  quite  fitted  for  the  situa- 
tion, and  she  will  be  appomted  thereto.  This  is  a  great 
satisfaction  to  me,  as  she  was  selected  solely  on  my  recom- 
mendation, backed  by  Mrs.  Ansdell's  letter.  Say  also  to 
the  old  woman  that  I  trust  she  receives  regularly  the 
money  her  daughter  sends  her  through  me,  which  indeed 
is  the  only  time  I  ever  see  Lydia  alone.  But  I  meet  her 
often  in  the  wards,  as  she  goes  from  cell  to  cell  teaching 
the  female  prisoners  ;  and  it  is  good  to  see  her  sweet,  grave 
looks,  her  decent  dress  and  mien,  and  her  inexpressible  hu- 
mility and  gentleness  toward  every  body.  She  puts  me  in 
mind  of  words  you  know,  which  in  another  sense  other 
hearts  than  poor  Lydia's  might  often  feel — ^that  those  love 
most  to  whom  most  has  been  forgiven.  Hinting  this, 
though  not  in  reference  to  her,  in  a  conversation  with  the 
governor,  he  observed,  rather  coldly,  "  He  had  heard  it  said 
Doctor  IJrquhart  held  peculiar  opinions  upon  crime  and 
punishment — that,  in  fact,  he  was  a  little  too  charitable." 

I  sighed,  thinking  that,  of  all  men,  Doctor  TJrquhart  was 
the  one  who  had  the  most  reason  to  be  cliaritable,  and  the 
governor  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me  somewhat  unpleasantly. 


330  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Any  one  running  counter,  as  I  do,  to  several  popular  prej- 
udices, is  sure  not  to  be  without  enemies.  I  should  be  sor- 
ry, though,  to  have  displeased  so  honest  a  man,  and  one 
who,  widely  as  we  difler  in  some  things,  is  always  safe  to 
deal  with,  from  his  possessing  that  rare  quality,  justice. 

You  see,  I  go  on  writing  to  you  of  my  matters  just  as  I 
should  talk  to  you  if  you  sat  by  my  side  now,  Avith  your 
hand  in  mine  and  your  head  here.  (So  you  found  two 
gray  hairs  in  those  long  locks  of  yours  last  week.  Never 
mind,  love.     To  me  you  will  be  always  young.) 

I  write  as  I  hope  to  talk  to  you  one  day.  I  never  was 
among  those  who  believe  that  a  man  should  keep  all  his 
cares  secret  from  his  wife.  If  she  is  a  true  wife,  she  will 
soon  read  them  oh  his  face,  or  the  effect  of  them ;  he  had 
better  tell  them  out,  and  have  them  over.  I  have  learned 
many  things  since  I  found  my  Theodora ;  among  the  rest 
is,  that  when  a  man  marries,  or  loves  with  the  hope  of  mar- 
rying, let  him  have  been  ever  so  reserved,  his  whole  nature 
opens  out — ^he  becomes  another  creature,  m  degree  toward 
every  body,  l)ut  most  of  all  to  her  he  has  chosen.  How 
altered  I  am  you  would  smile  to  see,  were  my  little  lady  to 
compare  these  long  letters  with  the  i3rief,  business-Hke  pro- 
ductions which  have  heretofore  borne  the  signature  "  Max 
Urquhart." 

I  prize  my  name  a  little.  It  has  been  honorable  for  a 
number  of  years.  My  father  was  proud  of  it,  and  Dallas. 
Do  you  like  it  ?  Will  you  like  it  when — ^if —  No,  let  me 
trust  in  Heaven,  and  say  when  you  bear  it  ? 

Those  papers  of  mine  which  you  saw  mentioned  in  the 
Times — I  am  glad  Mr.  Johnston  read  them ;  or,  at  least, 
you  suppose  he  did.  I  believe  they  are  doing  good,  and 
that  my  name  is  becoming  pretty  well  known  in  connection 
with  them,  especially  in  this  town.  A  provincial  reputa- 
tion has  its  advantages ;  it  is  more  undoubted — more  com- 
plete. In  London  a  man  may  shirk  and  hide ;  his  nearest 
acquaintance  can  scarcely  know  him  thoroughly :  but  in  the 
provinces  it  is  different.  There,  if  he  has  a  flaw  in  him, 
either  as  to  his  antecedents,  his  character,  or  conduct,  be 
sure  scandal  will  find  it  out,  for  she  has  every  opportunity. 
Also  pubhc  opinion  is  at  once  stricter  and  more  narrow- 
minded  in  a  place  like  this  than  in  a  great  metropolis.  I 
am  glad  to  be  earning  a  good  name  here,  in  this  honest, 
hard-working,  commercial  district,  where  my  fortunes  are 
apparently  cast,  and  where,  having  been  a  "  rolhng  stone" 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  331 

all  my  life,  I  mean  to  settle  and  "  gather  moss"  if  I  can — 
moss  to  make  a  little  nest  soft  and  warm  for — my  love 
knows  who. 

Writing  this  about  the  impossibility  of  keeping  any  thing 
secret  in  a  town  like  this  reminds  me  of  something  which  I 
was  in  doubt  about  teUing  you  or  not ;  finally  I  have  de- 
cided that  I  will  tell  you.  Your  sister  being  absent  will 
make  things  easier  for  you.  You  will  not  have  need  to 
use  any  of  those  concealments  which  must  be  so  painful  in 
a  home.  [NTevertheless,  I  do  think  Miss  Johnston  ought  to 
be  kept  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  I  believe — nay,  am  ahnost 
certain — -Mr.  Francis  Charteris  is  at  this  j)resent  time  living 
in  Liverpool. 

ISTo  wonder  that  all  my  mquiries  about  him  in  London 
failed.  He  has  just  been  discharged  from  this  very  jail. 
It  is  more  than  likely  he  was  arrested  for  liabihties  long 
owing,  or  contracted  after  his  last  fruitless  visit  to  his  un- 
cle, Sir  Wilham.  I  could  easily  find  out,  but  hardly  con- 
sider it  delicate  to  make  inquiries,  as  I  did  not,  you  know, 
after  the  debtor — whom  a  turnkey  here  reported  to  have 
said  he  knew  me.  Debtors  are  not  criminals  by  law — their 
ward  is  justly  held  private.  I  never  visit  any  of  them  un- 
less they  come  into  hospital. 

Therefore  my  meeting  with  Mr.  Charteris  was  purely  ac- 
cidental. Nor  do  I  beheve  he  recognized  me — I  had  step- 
ped aside  into  the  warder's  room.  The  two  other  dis- 
charged debtors  passed  through  the  entrance-gate,  and 
quitted  the  jail  immediately;  but  he  lingered,  desmng  a 
car  to  be  sent  for,  and  inquiring  w^here  one  could  get  hand- 
some and  comfortable  lodgings  ui  this  horrid  Liverpool. 
He  hated  a  commercial  town. 

You  will  ask,  Avoman-like,  how  he  looked  ?  Ill  and  worn, 
with  something  of  the  shabby,  "  poor  gentleman"  aspect, 
with  which  we  here  are  only  too  familiar.  I  overheard  the 
turnkey  joking  with  the  carman  about  taking  him  to  "  hand- 
some rooms."  Also,  there  was  about  him  an  ominous  air 
of  what  we  iti  Scotland  call  the  "  down-draught ;"  a  term 
the  fuU  meaning  of  which  you  probably  do  not  understand 

— ^I  trust  you  never  may. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

You  will  see  by  its  date  how  many  days  ago  the  first 
part  of  this  letter  was  wi'itten.  I  kept  it  back  till  the  cruel 
suspense  of  your  sister's  sudden  relapse  was  ended — think- 
ing it  a  pity  your  mind  should  be  burdened  with  any  addi- 


332  A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

tional  care.  Yon  have  had,  m  the  mean  time,  the  daily 
bulletin  from  Treherne  Court — the  daily  line  from  me. 

How  are  you,  my  child  ?  for  you  have  forgotten  to  say. 
Any  roses  out  on  your  poor  cheeks  ?  Look  in  the  glass 
and  tell  me.  I  must  know,  or  I  must  come  and  see.  Re- 
member, your  life  is  a  part  of  mine  now. 

Mrs.  Treherne  is  convalescent — as  you  know.  I  saw  her 
on  Monday  for  the  first  time.  She  is  changed,  certainly ; 
it  will  be  long  before  she  is  any  thing  like  the  Lisabel 
Johnston  of  my  recollection,  fvill  of  health  and  physical  en- 
joyment. But  do  not  grieve.  Sometimes,  to  have  gone 
near  the  gates  of  death,  and  returned,  hallows  the  whole 
future  life.  I  thought,  as  I  left  her,  lymg  contentedly  on 
her  sofa,  with  her  hand  in  her  husband's,  who  sits  watch- 
ing as  if  truly  she  were  given  back  to  him  from  the  grave, 
that  it  may  be  good  for  those  two  to  have  been  so  nearly 
parted.  It  may  teach  them,  accordmg  to  a  Ime  you  once 
repeated  to  me  (you  see,  though  I  am  not  poetical,  I  re- 
member all  your  bits  of  poetry),  to 

' '  hold  every  mortal  joy 
With  a  loose  hand," 

since  nothing  finite  is  safe,  unless  overshadowed  by  the  be- 
lief in  and  the  glory  of  the  Infinite. 

My  dearest — my  best  of  every  earthly  thing — whom  to 
be  parted  from  temporarily,  as  now,  often  makes  me  feel 
as  if  half  myself  were  wanting — whom  to  lose  out  of  this 
world  would  be  a  loss  irremediable,  and  to  leave  behind  in 
it  would  be  the  sharpest  sting  of  death — ^better,  I  have 
sometimes  thought,  of  late — better  be  you  and  I  than  Tre- 
herne and  Lisabel. 

In  all  these  letters  I  have  scarcely  mentioned  Penelope 
— ^you  see  I  am  learning  to  name  your  sisters  as  if  mine. 
She,  however,  has  treated  me  almost  like  a  stranger  in  the 
few  times  we  happened  to  meet — until  last  Monday. 

I  had  left  the  happy  group  in  the  library — Treherne, 
tearing  himself  from  his  wife's  sofa — honest  fellow !  to  fol- 
loAV  me  to  the  door — where  he  wrung  my  hand,  and  said, 
with  a  sob  like  a  schoolboy,  that  he  had  never  been  so 
happy  in  his  life  before,  and  he  hoped  he  was  thankful  for 
it.  Your  eldest  sister,  who  sat  in  the  window  sewing — 
her  figure  put  me  somewhat  in  mind  of  you,  little  lady — 
bade  me  good-by — she  was  going  back  to  Rockmount  in  a 
few  days. 

I  quitted  them,  and  walked  alone  across  the  park,  where 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  333 

the  chestnut-trees — you  remember  them — are  beguming 
not  only  to  change,  but  to  fall ;  thinking  how  fast  the  years 
go,  and  how  little  there  is  in  them  of  positive  joy.  Wrong, 
this  !  and  I  know  it ;  but,  my  love,  I  sin  sorely^  at  times. 
I  nearly  forgot  a  small  patient  I  have  at  the  lodge  gates, 
who  is  sHppmg  so  gradually,  but  surely,  poor  wee  man ! 
mto  the  world  where  he  will  be  a  child  forever.  After  sit- 
ting with  him  half  an  hour,  I  came  out  better. 

A  lady  was  waiting  outside  the  lodge  gates.  When  I 
saw  who  it  was,  I  meant  to  bow  and  pass  on,  but  Miss 
Johnston  called  me.  From  her  face,  I  dreaded  it  was  some 
ill  news  about  you. 

Your  sister  is  a  good  woman  and  a  kind. 

She  said  to  me,  when  her  explanations  had  set  my  mind 
at  ease, 

"  Doctor  Urquhart,  I  believe  you  are  a  man  to  be  trusted. 
Dora  trusts  you.  Dora  once  said  you  would  be  just,  even 
to  your  enemies." 

I  answered,  I  hoped  it  was  something  more  than  justice 
that  we  owed,  even  to  our  enemies. 

"  That  is  not  the  question,"  she  said,  sharply ;  "  I  spoke 
only  of  justice.  I  would  not  do  an  injustice  to  the  meanest 
thing — the  vilest  wretch  that  crawls." 

"1^0." 

She  went  on : 

"  I  have  not  liked  you.  Doctor  Urquhart ;  nor  do  I  know 
if  my  feelings  are  altered  now — but  I  respect  you.  There- 
fore, you  are  the  only  person  of  whom  I  can  ask  a  favor. 
It  is  a  secret.     Will  you  keep  it  so  ?" 

"  Except  from  Theodora." 

"  You  are  right.  Have  no  secrets  from  Theodora.  For 
her  sake  and  your  own — for.your  whole  life's  peace — never, 
even  in  the  lightest  thing,  deceive  that  poor  child !" 

Her  voice  sharpened,  her  black  eyes  glittered  a  moment, 
and  then  she  shrank  back  into  her  usual  self.  I  see  exactly 
the  sort  of  woman,  which,  as  you  say,  she  will  grow  into — 
sister  Penelope — aunt  Penelope.  Every  one  belonging  to 
her  must  try,  henceforth,  to  spare  her  every  possible  pang. 

After  a  few  moments,  I  begged  her  to  say  what  I  could 
do  for  her. 

"  Read  this  letter,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  it  is  true." 

It  was  addressed  to  Sir  WiUiam  Treherne ;  the  last  hum- 
ble appeal  of  a  broken-down  man;  the  signature,  "Francis 
Charteris." 


334  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

I  tried  my  best  to  disguise  the  emotion  which  Miss  John- 
ston herself  did  not  show,  and  returned  the  letter,  merely 
inquiring  if  Sir  William  had  answered  it. 

"  No  ;  he  will  not.     He  disbelieves  the  facts."' 

"Do  you,  also?" 

"  I  can  not  say.  The — the  writer  was  not  always  accu- 
rate in  his  statements." 

Women  are,  in  some  things,  stronger  and  harder  than 
men.  I  doubt  if  any  man  could  have  spoken  as  steadily  as 
your  sister  did  at  this  minute.  While  I  explained  to  her, 
as  I  thought  it  right  to  do,  though  with  the  manner  of  one 
talking  of  a  stranger  to  a  stranger,  the  present  position  of 
Mr.  Charteris,  she  replied  not  a  syllable.  Only  passing  a 
felled  tree  she  suddenly  sank  down  upon  it,  and  sat  motion- 
less. 

"  What  is  he  to  do  ?"  she  said,  at  last. 

I  rephed  that  the  Insolvent  Court  could  free  him  from 
his  debts  and  grant  him  protection  from  farther  imprison- 
ment ;  that  though,  thus  sunk  in  circumstances,  a  govern- 
ment situation  was  hardly  to  be  hoped  for,  still  there  were 
in  Liverpool  clerkships  and  mercantile  opportunities,  in 
which  any  person  so  well  educated  as  he  might  begin  the 
world  again,  health  permitting. 

"  His  health  was  never  good — ^has  it  failed  him  ?" 

"I  fear  so." 

Your  sister  turned  away.  She  sat — we  both  sat — for 
some  time  so  still  that  a  bright-eye(^ squirrel  came  and 
peeped  at  us,  stole  a  nut  a  few  yards  off,  and  scuttled  away 
with  it  to  Mrs.  Squirrel  and  the  little  ones  up  in  a  tall  syca- 
more hard  by. 

I  begged  Miss  Johnston  to  let  me  see  the  address  once 
more,  and  I  would  pay  a  visits  friendly  or  medical,  as  the 
case  might  allow,  to  Mr.  Charteris  on  my  way  home  to- 
night. 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor  Urquhart." 

I  then  rose  and  took  leave,  time  being  short. 

"  Stay,  one  word  if  you  please.  In  that  visit  you  will, 
of  course,  say,  if  inquired,  that  you  learned  the  address 
from  Treherne  Court.     You  will  name  no  other  names  ?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  But  afterward  you  will  write  to  me  ?" 

"I  will." 

We  shook  hands,  and  I  left  her  sitting  there  on  the  dead 
tree.     I  went  on,  wondering  if  any  thing  would  result  from 


A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE.  335 

this  curious  combination  of  accidents ;  also,  whether  a 
woman's  love,  if  cut  off  at  the  root,  even  like  this  tree, 
could  be  actually  killed,  so  that  nothing  could  revive  it 
again.     What  think  you,  Theodora  ? 

But  this  trick  of  moralizing  caught  from  you  shall  not 
be  indulged.  There  is  only  time  for  the  relation  of  bare 
facts. 

The  train  brought  me  to  the  opposite  shore  of  our  river, 
not  half  a  mile's  walk  from  Mr.  Charteris's  lodgings.  They 
seemed  "  handsome  lodgings,"  .as  he  said ;  a  tall,  new  house, 
one  of  the  many  which,  only  half  built,  or  half  inhabited, 
make  this  Birkenhead  such  a  dreary  place.  But  it  is  im- 
proving year  by  year.  I  sometimes  think  it  may  be  quite 
a  busy  and  cheerful  spot  by  the  time  I  take  a  house  here, 
as  I  intend.     You  will  like  a  hill-top  and  a  view  of  the  sea. 

I  asked  for  Mr.  Charteris,  and  stumbled  up  the  half- 
lighted  stairs  into  the  wholly  dark  drawing-room. 

"  Who  the  devil's  there  ?" 

He  was  in  hiding,  you  must  remember,  as,  indeed,  I 
ought  to  have  done,  and  so  taken  the  precaution  first  to 
send  up  my  name,  but  I  was  afraid  of  non-admittance. 

When  the  gas  was  lit,  his  pale,  imshaven,  sallow  counte- 
nance, his  state  of  apparent  illness  and  weakness  made  me 
cease  to  regret  having  gained  entrance  under  any  circum- 
stances.    Recognizing  me,  he  muttered  some  apology. 

"  I  was  asleep  ;  I  usually  do  sleep  after  dinner."  Then, 
recovering  his  confused  faculties,  he  asked  with  some 
hauteur^  "  To  what  may  I  attribute  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Doctor  Urquhart  ?  Are  you,  hke  myself,  a  mere  bird  of 
passage,  or  a  resident  in  Liverpool  ?" 

"  I  am  a  surgeon  of jail." 

"  Indeed,  I  was  not  aware.  A  good  appointment,  I  hope. 
And  what  jail  did  you  say  ?" 

I  named  it  again  and  left  the  subject.  If  he  chose  to 
wrap  himself  in  that  thin  cloak  of  deception,  it  Avas  no 
business  of  mine  to  tear  it  off.  Besides,  one  pities  a  ruined 
man's  most  petty  pride. 

But  it  was  an  awkward  position.  You  know  how 
haughty  Mr.  Charteris  can  be ;  you  know  also  that  unlucky 
peculiarity  in  me,  call  it  Scotch  shyness,  cautiousness,  or 
what  you  please,  my  little  English  girl  must  cure  if  she 
can.  Whether  or  not  it  was  my  fault,  I  soon  felt  that  this 
visit  was  turning  out  a  comj^lete  failure.  We  conversed 
in  the  civilest  mannea',  though  somewhat  disjointedly,  on 


336  A    LIFE    FOE,    A    LIFE. 

j)olitics,  the  climate  and  trade  of  Livei'iDool,  etc. ;  but  of 
Mv.  Charteris  and  his  real  condition  I  learned  no  more 
than  if  I  were  meeting  him  at  a  London  dinner-party,  or  a 
supper  with  poor  Tom  Turton,  who  is  dead,  as  you  know. 
Mr.  Charteris  did  not,  it  seems,  and  his  startled  exclama- 
tion at  hearing  the  fact  was  the  only  natural  expression 
during  my  whole  visit;  Avhich,  after  a  few  rather  broad 
hints,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  a  letter's  being  brought  in 
to  terminate. 

Not,  however,  with  any  intention  on  my  side  of  its  being 
a  final  one.  The  figure  of  this  wretched-looking  invahd, 
though  he  would  not  own  to  illness — men  seldom  will — 
lying  in  the  solitary,  fireless  lodging-house  parlor,  where 
there  was  no  indication  of  food,  and  a  strong  smell  of  opi- 
um, followed  me  all  the  way  to  the  jetty,  suggesting  plan 
after  plan  concerning  him. 

You  can  not  think  how  pretty  even  our  dull  river  looks 
of  a  night,  with  its  two  long  lines  of  lighted  shores,  and  other 
lights  scattered  between  in  all  directions,  every  vessel's  rig- 
ging bearing  one.  And  to-night,  above  all  things,  was  a 
large,  bright  moon,  sailing  up  over  innumerable  white 
clouds,  into  the  clear,  dark  zenith,  converting  the  town  of 
Liverpool  into  a  fairy  city,  and  the  muddy  Mersey  into  a 
pleasant  river,  crossed  by  a  pathway  of  silver,  such  as  one 
always  looks  at  with  a  kind  of  hope  that  it  would  lead  to 
"  some  bright  isle  of  rest."  There  was  a  song  to  that  ef- 
fect popular  when  Dallas  and  I  were  boys. 

As  the  boat  moved  ofi",  I  settled  myself  to  enjoy  the 
brief  seven  minutes  of  crossing — thinking,  if  I  had  but  the 
little  face  by  me  looking  up  into  the  moonlight  she  is  so 
fond  of,  the  little  hand  to  keep  warm  in  mine ! 

And  now,  Theodora,  I  come  to  something  which  you 
must  use  your  own  judgment  about  telling  your  sister  Pe- 
nelope. 

Half  way  across,  I  was  attracted  by  the  peculiar  manner 
of  a  passenger,  who  had  leaped  on  the  boat  just  as  we  were 
shoved  off,  and  now  stood  still  as  a  carved  figure,  staring- 
down  into  the  foamy  track  of  the  paddle-wheels.  He  was 
so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  notice  me,  but  I  recognized  him 
at  once,  and  an  ugly  suspicion  entered  my  mind. 

In  my  time  I  have  had  opportunities  of  witnessing,  stage 
by  stage,  that  disease — call  it  dyspepsia,  hypochondriasis, 
or  what  you  will — it  has  all  names  and  all  forms — which  is 
peculiar  to  our  present  state  of  high  civiUzation,  where  the 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  •      331 

mind  and  tlie  body  seem  cultivated  into  perpetual  warfare 
one  with  the  other.  This  state — some  people  put  poetical 
names  upon  it — but  we  doctors  know  that  it  is  at  least  as 
much  physical  as  mental,  and  that  many  a  poor  misanthrope, 
who  loathes  himself  and  the  world,  is  merely  an  unfortu- 
nate victim  of  stomach  and  nerves,  whom  rest,  natural  liv- 
ing, and  an  easy  mind  would  soon  make  a  man  again.  But 
that  does  not  remove  the  pitifulness  and  danger  of  the  case. 
While  the  man  is  what  he  is,  he  is  httle  better  than  a  mon- 
omaniac 

If  I  had  not  seen  him  before,  the  ex|3ression  ofiis  coun- 
tenance, as  he  stood  looking  down  into  the  river,  would 
have  been  enough  to  convince  me  how  necessary  it  was  to 
keep  a  strict  watch  over  Mr.  Charteris, 

When  the  rush  of  passengers  to  the  gangway  made  our 
side  of  the  boat  nearly  deserted,  he  sprang  up  to  the  steps 
of  the  paddle-box,  and  there  stood. 

I  once  saw  a  man  commit  suicide.  It  was  one  of  ours, 
returning  from  the  Crimea.  He  had  been  drinking  hard, 
and  was  put  under  restraint,  for  fear  of  delirium  tremens ; 
but  when  he  was  thought  recovered,  one  day,  at  broad 
noon,  in  sight  of  all  hands,  he  suddenly  jumped  overboard. 
I  caught  sight  of  his  face  as  he  did  so — it  was  exactly  the 
expression  pf  Francis  Charteris. 

Perhaps,  in  any  case,  you  had  better  never  repeat  the 
whole  of  this  to  your  sister. 

N'ot  till  after  a  considerable  struggle  did  I  pull  him  down 
to  the  safe  deck  once  more.     There  he  stood  breathless. 

*'You  were  not  surely  going  to  drown  yourself,  Mr. 
Charteris  ?" 

"I  was.     And  I  will," 

*'  Try,  and  I  shall  call  the  police  to  prevent  your  making 
such  an  ass  of  yourself." 

It  was  no  time  to  choose  words,  and  in  this  sort  of  dis- 
ease the  best  preventive  one  can  use,  next  to  a  firm,  impera- 
tive will,  is  ridicule.  He  answered  nothing — but  gazed  at 
me  in  simple  astonishment,  while  I  took  his  arm  and  led 
him  out  of  the  boat  and  across  the  landing-stage. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  using  such  strong  language,  but  a 
man  must  be  an  ass  indeed  who  contemplates  such  a  thing ; 
here,  too,  of  all  places.  To  be  fished  up  out  of  this  dirty 
river,  hke  a  dead  rat,  for  the  entertainment  of  the  crowd ; 
to  make  a  capital  case  at  the  magistrate's  court  to-morrow, 
and  a  first-rate  paragraph  in  the  Ziverpool  Mercury — *  At- 

P 


338       ■  A    LIFE   FOR    A    LIFE. 

tempted  Suicide  of  a  Gentleman.'  Or,  if  you  really  suc- 
ceeded, which  I  doubt,  to  be  '  Found  Drowned' — a  mere 
body,  drifted  ashore  with  cocoa-nut  husks  and  cabbages  at 
Waterloo,  or  brought  in  as  I  once  saw  at  these  very  stairs, 
one  of  the  many  poor  fools  who  do  this  here  yearly.  They 
had  picked  him  up  eight  miles  higher  up  the  river,  and  so 
brought  him  down  lashed  behind  a  rowing  boat,  floating 
face  upward — ^" 
"Ah!" 

I  felt  Charteris  shudder. 

You  will,  too,  my  love,  so  I  will  repeat  no  more  of  what 
I  said  to  him.  But  these  ghastly  pictures  were  the  strong- 
est arguments  available  with  such  a  man.  What  was  the 
use  of  talking  to  him  of  God,  and  life,  and  immortality  ?  he 
had  told  me  he  believed  in  none  of  these  things.  But  he 
believed  in  death — the  Epicurean's  view  of  it — "  to  lie  in 
cold  obstruction  and  to  rot."  I  thought,  and  still  think, 
that  it  was  best  to  use  any  lawful  means  to  keep  him  from 
repeating  the  attempt.  Best  to  save  the  man  first,  and 
preach  to  him  afterward. 

He  and  I  walked  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Liverpool 
almost  in  silence,  except  when  he  darted  into  the  first  chem- 
ist's shop  he  saw  to  procure  opium. 

"  Don't  hinder  me,"  he  said,  imploringly,  "  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  keeps  me  alive." 

Then  I  walked  him  about  once  more,  till  his  pace  flagged, 
his  limbs  tottered,  he  became  thoroughly  passive  and  e^i- 
hausted.  I  called  a  car,  and  expressed  my  determination 
to  see  him  safe  home. 

"  Home !  l^o,  no,  I  must  not  go  there."  And  the  poor 
fellow  summoned  all  his  faculties,  in  order  to  speak  ration- 
ally. "You  see,  a  gentleman  in  my  unpleasant  circum- 
stances— in  short,  could  you  recommend  any  place — a  quiet, 
out-of-the-way  place,  where — where  I  could  hide  ?" 

I  had  suspected  things  were  thus.  And  now,  if  I  lost 
sight  of  him  even  for  twenty-four  hours,  he  might  be  lost 
permanently.  He  was  in  that  critical  state  when  the  next 
step,  if  it  were  not  to  a  prison,  might  be  into  a  lunatic 
asylum. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  persuade  him  that  the  last  place 
where  creditors  would  search  for  a  debtor  would  be  inside 
a  jail,  nor  to  convey  him,  half  stupefied  as  he  was,  into  my 
own  rooms,  and  leave  him  fast  asleep  on  my  bed. 

Yet,  even  now,  I  can  not  account  for  the  influence  I  so  soon 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  339 

gained,  and  kept;  except  that  any  person  in  his  seven 
senses  always  has  power  over  another  nearly  out  of  them, 
and  to  a  sick  man  there  is  no  autocrat  like  the  doctor. 

N^ow  for  his  present  condition.  The  day  following,  I  re- 
moved him  to  a  country  lodging,  where  an  old  woman  I 
know  will  look  after  him.  The  place  is  humble  enough, 
but  they  are  honest  people.  He  may  lie  safe  there  till  some 
portion  of  health  returns  ;  his  rent,  etc. — ^my  j^rudent  little 
lady  will  be  sure  to  be  asking  after  my  "  circumstances" — • 
well,  love,  his  rent  for  the  next  month,  at  least,  I  can  easily 
afford  to  pay.  The  present  is  provided  for — as  to  his  fu- 
ture, heaven  only  knows. 

I  wrote,  according  to  promise,  to  your  sister  Penelope, 
explaining  where  Mr.  Charteris  was,  his  state  of  liealth,  and 
the  position  of  his  affairs ;  also,  my  advice,  which  he  neither 
assents  to  nor  dechnes,  that,  as  soon  as  his  health  will  per- 
mit, he  should  surrender  himself  in  London,  go  through 
the  Insolvent  Court,  and  start  anew  in  life.  A  hard  life,  at 
best,  since,  w^hatever  situation  he  may  obtain,  it  will  take 
years  to  free  him  from  all  his  liabilities. 

Miss  Johnston's  answer  I  received  this  morning.  It  was 
merely  an  envelope  containing  a  bank  note  of  £20,  Sir  Wil- 
liam's gift,  possibly;  I  told  her  he  had  better  be  made 
aware  of  his  nephew's  abject  state — or  do  you  suppose  it 
is  from  herself?  I  thought  beyond  your  quarterly  allow- 
ance, you  had  none  of  you  much  ready  money  ?  If  there 
is  any  thing  I  ought  to  know  before  applying  this  sum  to 
the  use  of  Mr.  Charteris,  you  will,  of  course,  tell  me  ? 

I  have  been  to  see  him  this  afternoon.  It  is  a  poor  room 
he  lies  in,  but  clean  and  quiet.  He  will  not  stir  out  of  it ;  it 
was  with  difficulty  I  persuaded  him  to  have  the  window 
opened,  so  that  we  might  enjoy  the  still  autumn  sunshine, 
the  church  bells,  and  the  little  robin's  song.  Turning  back 
to  the  sickly  drawn  face,  buried  in  the  sofa-pillows,  my 
heart  smote  me  with  a  heavy  doubt  as  to  what  was  to  be 
the  end  of  Francis  Charteris. 

Yet  I  do  not  think  he  will  die ;  but  he  will  be  months, 
years  in  recovering,  even  if  he  is  ever  his  old  self  again — 
bodily,  I  mean ;  whether  his  inner  self  is  undergoing  any 
change,  I  have  small  means  of  judging.  The  best  thing  for 
him,  both  mentally  and  physically,  would  be  a  fond,  good 
woman's  constant  care ;  but  that  he  can  not  have. 

I  need  scarcely  say  I  have  taken  every  precaution  that 
he  should  never  see  nor  hear  any  thing  of  Lydia,  nor  she 


340  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

of  him.  He  has  never  named  her,  nor  any  one ;  past  and 
futm-e  seem  alike  swept  out  of  his  mind ;  he  only  lives  in 
the  miserable  present,  a  helpless,  hopeless,  exacting  invalid. 
Not  on  any  account  would  I  have  Lydia  Cartwright  see  him 
now.  If  I  jndge  her  countenance  rightly,  she  is  just  the 
girl  to  do  exactly  what  you  women  are  so  prone  to — for- 
give every  thing,  sacrifice  every  thing,  and  go  back  to  the 
old  love.  Ah !  Theodora,  what  am  I  that  I  should  dare  to 
speak  thus  lightly  of  women's  love,  women's  forgiveness ! 

,  I  am  glad  Mr.  Johnston  allows  you  occasionally  to  see 
Mrs.  Cartwright  and  the  child,  and  that  the  little  fellow  is 
so  well  cared  for  by  his  grandmother.  If,  with  his  father's 
face,  he  inherits  his  father's  temperament,  the  nervously 
sensitive  organization  of  a  modern  "gentleman,"  as  op- 
posed to  the  healthy  animalism  of  a  working  man,  Hfe  will 
be  an  uphill  road  to  that  poor  boy. 

His  mother's  heart  aches  after  him  sorely  at  times,  as  I 
can  plainly  perceive.  Yesterday,  I  saw  her  stand  watching 
the  line  of  female  convicts — those  with  infants — as  one  aft- 
er the  other  they  filed  out,  each  with  her  baby  in  her  arms, 
and  passed  into  the  exercising  ground.  Afterward,  I  watch- 
ed her  slip  into  one  of  the  empty  cells,  fold  up  a  child's  cap 
that  had  been  left  lying  about,  and  look  at  it  wistfully,  as 
if  she  almost  envied  the  forlorn  occupant  of  that  dreary 
nook,  where,  at  least,  the  mother  had  her  child  with  her 
continually.  Poor  Lydia!  she  may  have  been  a  girl  of 
weak  will,  easily  led  astray,  but  I  am  convinced  that  the 
only  thing  which  led  her  astray  must  have  been,  and  will 
always  be,  her  affections. 

Perhaps,  as  the  grandmother  can  not  write,  it  would  be 
a  comfort  to  Lydia  if  your  next  letter  enabled  me  to  give 
to  her  a  fuller  account  of  the  welfare  of  little  Frank.  I 
wonder,  does  his  father  ever  think  of  him,  or  of  the  poor 
mother  ?  He  was  "  always  kind  to  them,"  you  tell  me  she 
declared ;  possibly  fond  of  them,  so  far  as  a  selfish  man  can 
be.  But  how  can  such  a  one  as  he  understand  what  it 
must  be  to  be  2,  father  ! 

My  love,  I  must  cease  writing  now.  It  is  midnight^  and 
I  have  to  take  as  much  sleep  as  I  can ;  my  work  is  very 
hard  just  at  present ;  but  happy  work,  because,  through  it, 
I  look  forward  rto  a  future. 

Your  father's  brief  message  of  thanks  for  my  telegram 
about  Mr.  Treherne  was  kind.  Will  you  aclmowledge  it 
in  the  way  you  consider  would  be  most  pleasing — that  is, 
least  unpleasing,  to  him,  from  me  ? 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  341 

And  now  farewell — farewell,  my  only  darling. 

Max  TJeqtjhaet. 

P.S. — After  the  fashion  of  a  lady's  letter,  though  not,  I 
trust,  Avith  the  most  imj^ortant  fact  therem.  Though  I  re- 
open my  letter  to  inform  you  of  it,  lest  you  might  learn  it 
in  some  other  way,  I  consider  it  of  very  slight  moment,  and 
only  name  it  because  these  sort  of  small  unpleasantnesses 
have  a  habit  of  growing  like  snow-balls  every  yard  they  roll. 

Our  chaplam  has  just  shown  me  in  this  morning's  paper 
a  paragraph  about  myself,  not  complimentary,  and  decid- 
edly ill-natured.  It  hardly  took  me  by  surprise ;  I  have  of 
late  occasionally  caught  stray  comments,  not  very  flatter- 
ing, on  myself  and  my  proceedings,  but  they  troubled  me 
little.  I  know  that  a  man  in  my  position,  with  aims  far 
beyond  his  joresent  circumstances,  with  opinions  too  obsti- 
nate and  manners  too  blunt  to  get  these  aims  carried  out, 
as  many  do,  by  the  aid  of  other  and  more  influential  peo- 
ple, such  a  man  micst  have  enemies. 

Be  not  afraid,  love — ^mine  are  few ;  and  be  sure  I  have 
given  them  no  cause  for  animosity.  True,  I  have  contra- 
dicted some,  and  not  many  men  can  stand  contradiction — 
but  I  have  wronged  no  man  to  my  knowledge.  My  con- 
science is  clear.  So  they  may  spread  what  absurd  reports 
or  innuendoes  they  vv^lU — I  shall  live  it  all  down. 

My  spirit  seems  to  have  had  a  douche-bath  this  morning, 
cold,  but  salutary.  This  tangible  annoyance  will  brace  me 
out  of  a  little  feeble-heartedness  that  has  been  growing 
over  me  of  late ;  so^be  content,  my  Theodora. 

I  send  you  the  newspaper  paragraph.  Read  it,  and 
burn  it. 

Is  Penelope  come  home  ?  I  need  scarcely  observe,  that 
only  herself  and  yoii  are  acquainted,  or  will  be,  with  any 
of  the  circumstances  I  have  related  with  respect  to  Mr. 
Charteris. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

HEE,    STORY. 


A  FOURTH  Monday,  and  my  letter  has  not  come.  Oh, 
Max,  Max !  You  are  not  ill,  I  know ;  for  Augustus  saw 
you  on  Saturday.  Why  were  you  in  such  haste  to  slip 
away  from  him  ?     He  himself  even  noticed  it. 


342  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

For  me,  had  I  not  then  heard  of  your  well-being,  I  should 
have  disquieted  myself  sorely.  Three  weeks — twenty-one 
days — it  is  a  long  time  to  go  about  as  if  there  were  a  stone 
lying  in  the  corner  of  one's  heart,  or  a  thorn  piercing  it. 
One  may  not  acknowledge  this :  one's  reason,  or  better, 
one's  love,  may  often  quite  argue  it  down ;  yet,  it  is  there. 
This  morning,  when  the  little  postman  went  whistling  past 
Kockmount  gate,  I  turned  almost  sick  with  fear. 

Understand  me — not  with  one  sort  of  fear.  Faithless- 
ness or  forgetfulness  are — well,  with  you  they  are — simply 
impossible !  But  you  are  my  Max ;  any  thing  happening 
to  you  happens  to  me ;  nothing  can  hurt  you  without  hurt- 
ing me.  'Do  you  feel  this  as  I  do  ?  if  so,  surely,  under  any 
circumstances,  you  would  write. 

<Forgive !  I  meant  not  to  blame  you ;  we  never  ought  to 
blame  what  we  can  not  understand.  Besides,  all  this  sus- 
pense may  end  to-morrow.  Max  does  not  intend  to  wound 
me ;  Max  loves  me. 

Just  now,  sitting  quiet,  I  seemed  to  hear  you  saying, 
"  My  little  lady,"  as  distinctly  as  if  you  were  close  at  hand, 
and  had  called  me.  Yet  it  is  a  year  since  I  have  heard  the 
sound  of  your  voice,  or  seen  your  face. 

Augustus  says,  of  late  you  have  turned  quite  gray. 
I^ever  mind.  Max !  I  like  silver  locks.  An  old  man  I  knew 
used  to  say,  "  At  the  root  of  every  gray  hair  is  a  cell  of 
ivisdom."  How  will  you  be  able  to  bear  with  the  foolish- 
ness of  this  me  ?  Yet  all  the  better  for  you.  I  know  you 
would  soon  be  ten  years  younger — looks  and  all — if,  after 
your  hard  work,  you  had  a  home  to  come  back  to,  and — 
and  77ie. 

See  how  conceited  we  grow !  See  the  demoralizing  re- 
sult of  having  been  for  a  whole  year  loved  and  cared  for ; 
of  knowing  ourselves,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  first 
object  to  somebody ! 

There  now,  I  can  laugh  again ;  and  so  I  may  begin  and 
write  my  letter.  It  shall  not  be  a  sad  or  complaining  let-- 
ter,  if  I  can  help  it. 

Spring  is  coming  on  fast.  I  never  remember  such  a 
March.  Buds  of  chestnuts  bursting,  blackbirds  singing, 
primroses  out  in  the  lane,  a  cloud  of  snowy  wind-flowers 
gleaming  through  the  trees,  of  my  favorite  wood,  concern- 
ing which,  you  remember,  we  had  our  celebrated  battle 
about  blue-bells  and  hyacinths.  These  are  putting  out  their 
^        leaves  already;  there  will  be  such  quantities  this  year. 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  343 

How  I  should  like  to  show  you  my  bank  of — ahem !  hlue- 
bells! 

Mischievous  still,  you  perceive.  Obstinate,  Ukewise ;  al- 
most as  obstinate  as — you. 

Augustus  hints  at  some  "  unpleasant  business"  you  have 
been  engaged  in  lately.  I  conclude  some  controversy,  in 
which  you  have  to  "  hold  your  own"  more  firmly  than  us- 
ual. Or  new  "enemies" — business  foes  only,  of  course, 
about  which  you  told  me  I  must  not  grieve ;  you  will  live 
down  any  passing  animosity.  It  will  be  all  smooth  sailing 
by-and-by.  But  in  the  mean  time,  why  not  tell  me  ?  I  am 
not  a  child — and  am  to  be  your  wife,  Max. 

Ah  I  now  the  thorn  is  out,  the  one  little  sting  of  pam. 
It  isn't  this  child  you  were  fond  of,  this  ignorant,  foolish, 
naughty  child,  it  is  your  wife,  whom  you  yourself  chose,  to 
whom  you  yours  ell*  gave  her  place  and  her  rights,  who 
comes  to  you  with  her  heart  full  of  love  and  says,  "Max, 
tell  me !" 

I^ow,  no  more  of  this,  for  I  have  much  to  tell  you — I  tell 
you  every  thing. 

You  know  how  quietly  this  winter  has  slipped  away  with 
us  at  Rockmount ;  how,  from  the  time  Penelope  returned, 
she  and  I  seemed  to  begin  our  lives  anew  together,  in  one 
sense  beginning  almost  as  little  children,  living  entirely  in 
the  present ;  content  with  each  day's  work  and  each  day's 
pleasure — and  it  was  wonderful  how  many  small  pleasi^res 
we  found — never  allowing  ourselves  either  to  dweU  on  the 
future  or  revert  to  the  past,  except  when,  by  your  desire, 
I  told  my  sister  of  Francis's  having  passed  through  the  In- 
solvent Court,  and  how  you  were  hoping  to  obtain  for  him 
a  situation  as  corresponding  clerk.  Poor  Francis !  aU  his 
grand  German  and  Spanish  to  have  sunk  down  to  the 
writing  of  a  merchant's  business  letters,  in  a  musty  Liver- 
pool office !  WiU.  he  ever  bear  it  ?  Well,  except  this  time, 
and  once  afterward,  his  name  has  never  been  mentioned, 
either  by  Penelope  or  me. 

The  second  time  happened  thus — I  did  not  tell  you  then, 
so  I  will  now.  When  our  Christmas  biUs  came  in — our 
private  ones,  my  sister  had  no  money  to  meet  them.  I 
soon  guessed  that — as,  from  your  letter,  I  had  already 
guessed  w^here  her  half-yearly  allowance  had  gone.  I  was 
perplexed,  for  though  she  now  confides  to  me  nearly  every 
thing  of  her  daily  concerns,  she  has  never  told  me  that. 
Yet  she  must  have  known  I  knew — that  you  would  be  sure 
to  tell  me. 


344  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

At  last,  one  morning,  as  I  was  passing  the  door  of  her 
room,  she  called  me  in. 

She  was  standing  before  a  chest  of  drawers,  which,  I  had 
noticed,  she  always  kept  locked.  But  to-day  the  top  drawer 
was  open,  and  out  of  a  small  jewel-ease  that  lay  on  it  she 
had  taken  a  string  of  pearls. 

*'  You  remember  this  ?" 

Ah!  yes.  But  Penelope  looked  steadily  at  it;  so,  of 
course,  did  I. 

"  Have  you  any  idea,  Dora,  what  it  is  worth,  or  how  much 
Sir  William  gave  for  it  ?" 

I  knew :  for  Lisabel  had  told  me  herself,  in  the  days  when 
we  were  all  rackmg  our  brains  to  find  out  suitable  marriage 
presents  for  the  governor's  lady. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong,  or  that  the  Trehernes 
would  be  annoyed  if  I  sold  it  ?" 

"  Sold  it  V 

"I  have  no  money — ^and  my  bills  must  be  paid.  It  is 
not  dishonest  to  sell  what  is  one's  own,  though,  it  may  be 
somewhat  painful." 

I  could  say  nothing.     The  pain  was  keen — even  to  me. 

She  then  reminded  me  how  Mrs.  Grant  on  had  once  ad- 
mired these  pearls,  saying,  when  Colin  married  she  should 
like  to  give  her  daughter-in-law  just  such  another  necklace. 

"  If  she  would  buy  it  now — ^if  you  would  not  mind  ask- 
ing her — " 

"No,  nol" 

"  Thank  you,  Dora." 

She  replaced  the  necklace  in  its  case,  and  gave  it  into  my 
hand.     I  was  slipping  out  of  the  room  when  she  said, 

"  One  moment,  child.  There  was  something  more  I  wish- 
ed to  say  to  you.     Look  here." 

She  unlocked  drawer  after  drawer.  There  lay,  carefully 
arranged,  all  her  wedding-clothes,  even  to  the  white  silk 
dress,  the  wreath,  and  veil.  Every  thing  was  put  away  in 
Penelope's  own  tidy,  over-particular  fashion,  wrapped  in 
silver  paper,  or  smoothly  folded,  with  sprigs  of  lavender 
between.  She  must  have  done  it  leisurely  and  orderly, 
after  her  peculiar  habit,  which  made  us,  when  she  was  only 
a  girl  of  seventeen,  tease  Penelope  by  calling  her  "old 
maid !" 

Even  now,  she  paused  more  than  once,  to  refold  or  re- 
arrange something — tenderly,  as  one  would  arrange  the 
clothes  of  a  person  who  was  dead — ^then  closed  and  locked 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LITE.  345 

every  drawer,  putting  the  key,  not  on  her  household-bunch, 
but  in  a  corner  of  her  desk. 

"  I  should  not  like  any  thing  touched  in  my  lifetime,  but, 
should  I  die — not  that  this  is  likely ;  I  believe  I  shall  live 
to  be  an  old  woman — still,  should  I  die,  you  will  know 
where  these  things  are.  Do  with  them  exactly  what  you 
thhik  best.  And  if  money  is  wanted  for — "  She  stopped, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  heard  her  pronounce  his 
name,  distinctly  and  steadily,  hke  any  other  name,  "for 
Francis  Charteris,  or  any  one  belonging  to  him — sell  them. 
You  will  promise  ?" 

I  promised. 

Mrs.  Granton,  dear  soul !  asked  no  questions,  but  took 
the  necklace,  and  gave  me  the  money,  which  I  brought  to 
my  sister.     She  received  it  without  a  word. 

After  this,  all  went  on  as  heretofore ;  and  though  some- 
times I  have  felt  her  eye  uj^on  me  when  I  was  opening 
your  letters,  as  if  she  fancied  there  might  be  something  to 
hear,  still,  since  there  never  was  any  thing,  I  thought  it 
best  to  take  no  notice.  But  Max,  I  wished  often,  and 
wish  now,  that  you  would  tell  me  if  there  is  any  special 
reason  why,  for  so  many  weeks,  you  have  never  mentioned 
Francis  ? 

I  was  telling  you.  about  Penelope.  She  has  fallen  into 
her  old  busy  ways — ^busier  than  ever,  indeed.  She  looks 
well  too,  "quite  herself  again,"  as  Mrs.  Granton  whispered 
to  me,  one  morning  when — wonderful  event — I  had  per- 
suaded my  sister  that  we  ought  to  drive  over  to  lunch  at 
the  Cedars,  and  admire  all  the  preparations  for  the  recep- 
tion of  Mrs.  CoHn,  next  month. 

"  I  would  not  have  liked  to  ask  her,"  added  the  good  old 
lady ;  "  but,  since  she  did  come,  I  am  glad.  The  sight  of 
my  yomig  folk's  happiness  will  not  pain  her?  She  has 
really  got  over  her  trouble,  you  think  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said  hastily,  for  Penelope  was  corojug  up 
the  green-house  walk.  Yet,  when  I  observed  her,  it  seem- 
ed not  herself  but  a  new  self — such  as  is  only  born  of  sor- 
row which  smiled  out  of  her  poor  thin  face,  made  her  move 
softly,  speak  afiectionately,  and  listen  patiently  to  all  the 
countless  details  about  "my  Colin"  and  "my  daughter 
Emily"  (bless  the  dear  old  lady,  I  hope  she  will  find  her  a 
real  daughter).  And  though  most  of  the  way  home  we 
were  both  more  silent  than  usual,  something  in  Penelope's 
countenance  made  me,  not  sad  or  anxious,  but  inly  awed, 

P2 


346  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

marveling  at  its  exceeding  peace.  A  peace  such  as  I  conld 
have  imagined  in  those  who  had  brought  all  their  earthly 
possessions  and  laid  them  at  the  apostles'  feet;  or  holier 
stiU,  and  therefore  happier — who  had  left  all,  taken  np 
their  cross,  and  followed  Hir^i.  Him 'who  through  His 
Hfe  and  death  taught  the  perfection  of  all  sacrifice,  self- 
sacrifice. 

I  may  write  thus.  Max,  may  I  not  ?  It  is  like  talking  to 
myself,  talking  to  you. 

It  was  on  this  very  drive  home  that  something  happened, 
which  I  am  going  to  relate  as  literally  as  I  can,  for  I  think 
you  ought  to  know  it.     It  will  make  you  love  my  sister  as' 
I  love  her,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

Watching  her,  I  almost — forgive,  dear  Max!  but  I  al- 
most forgot  my  letter  to  you,  safely  written  overnight,  to 
be  posted  on  our  way  home  from  the  Cedars  ;  till  PenelojDe 
thought  of  a  village  post-office  we  had  just  passed. 

"Don't  vex  yourself,  child,"  she  said,  "you  shall  cross 
the  moor  again  ;  you  will  be  quite  in  time :  and  I  will  drive 
round,  and  meet  you  just  beyond  the  ponds." 

And,  in  my  hurry,  I  utterly  forgot  that  cottage  you 
know,  which  she  has  never  yet  been  near,  nor  is  aware  who 
live  in  it.  E'ot  till  I  had  posted  my  letter,  did  I  call  to 
mind  that  she  would  be  passing  Mrs.  Cartwright's  very 
door ! 

However,  it  was  too  late  to  alter  plans,  so  I  resolved  not 
to  fret  about  it.  And,  somehow  the  spring  feeling  came 
over  me ;  the  smeU  of  furze-blossoms,  and  of  green  leaves 
budding;  the  vague  sense  as  if  some  new  blessing  were 
coming  with  the  coming  year.  And,  though  I  had  not 
Max  with  me,  to  admire  my  one  stray  violet  that  I  found, 
and  listen  to  my  lark — the  first,  singing  up  in  his  white 
cloud,  still  I  thought  of  you,  and  I  loved  you !  With  a 
love  that,  I  think,  those  only  feel  who  have  suffered,  and 
sufiered  together ;  a  love  that,  though  it  may  have  known 
a  few  pains,  has  never,  thank  God,  known  a  single  doubt. 
And  so  you  did  not  feel  so  far  away. 

Then  I  walked  on  as  fast  as  I  could  to  meet  the  pony- 
carriage,  which  I  saw  crawling  along  the  road  round  the 
turn — past  the  very  cottage.  My  heart  beat  so  !  But  Pe- 
nelope drove  quietly  on,  looking  straight  before  her.  She 
would  have  driven  by  in  a  minute,  when,  right  across  the 
road,  in  front  of  the  pony,  after  a  dog  or  something,  I  saw 
run  a  child. 


A   LIFE    FOE    A   LIFE.  847 

How  I  got  to  the  spot  I  hardly  know ;  how  the  child  es- 
cajDed  I  know  still  less  ;  it  was  almost  a  miracle.  But  there 
stood  Penelope,  with  the  little  fellow  in  her  arms.  He  was 
unhurt — not  even  frightened. 

I  took  him  from  her ;  she  was  still  too  bewildered  to  ob- 
serve him  much ;  besides,  a  child  alters  so  in  six  months. 
"  He  is  all  right,  you  see.     Run  away,  little  man.." 

"  Stop !  there  is  his  mother  to  be  thought  of,"  said  Pe- 
nelope ;  "  where  does  he  Hve  ?  whose  child  is  he  ?" 

Before  I  could  answer  the  grandmother  ran  out,  calling, 
"Franky!  Franky!" 

It  was  all  over.     ISlo  concealment  was  possible. 

I  made  my  sister  sit  down  by  the  road-side,  and  there, 
with  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  she  sat  till  her  deadly  pale- 
ness passed  away,  and  two  tears  slowly  rose  and  rolled 
down  her  cheeks ;  but  she  said  nothing. 

Again  I  impressed  upon  her  what  a  great  comfort  it  was 
that  the  boy  had  escaped  without  one  scratch ;  for  there 
he  stood,  having  once  more  got  away  from  his  granny,  star- 
ing at  us,  finger  in  mouth,  with  intense  curiosity  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

"  Off  with  you !"  I  cried  more  than  once.  But  he  kept 
his  ground ;  and  when  I  rose  to  put  him  away,  my  sister 
held  me. 

Often  I  have  noticed  that  in  her  harshest  days  Penelope 
never  disliked  nor  Avas  dishked  by  children.  She  had  a 
sort  of  instinct  for  them.  They  rarely  vexed  her,  as  we,  or 
her  servants,  or  her  big  scholars  always  unhappily  contrived 
to  do.  And  she  could  always  manage  them,  from  the 
squalling  baby  that  she  stopped  to  pat  at  a  cottage  door, 
to  the  raggedest  young  scamp  in  the  village,  whom  she 
would  pick  up  after  a  pitched  battle,  give  a  good  scolding 
to,  then  hear  all  his  tribulations,  dry  his  dirty  face,  and  send 
him  away  with  a  broad  grin  uj)on  it,  such  as  was  upon 
Franky's  now. 

He  came  nearer,  and  put  his  brown  httle  paws  upon  Pe- 
nelope's silk  gown. 

"The  pony,"  she  muttered;  "Dora,  go  and  see  after  the 
pony." 

But  when  I  was  gone,  and  she  thought  herself  unseen,  I 
saw  her  coax  the  little  lad  to  her  side,  to  her  arms,  hold 
him  there  and  kiss  liim ;  oh !  Max,  I  can't  write  of  it ;  I 
could  not  tell  it  to  any  body  but  you. 

After  keeping  away  as  long  as  was  practicable,  I  return- 


348  A   LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

ed,  to  find  Franky  gone,  and  my  sister  walking  slowly  up 
and  down ;  her  veil  was  down,  but  her  voice  and  step  had 
their  usual  "  old-maidish"  quietness — if  I  dared,  without  a 
sob  at  the  heart,  even  thmk  that  word  concernmg  our  Pe- 
nelope! 

Leaving  her  to  get  into  the  carriage,  I  just  ran  into  the 
cottage  to  tell  Mrs.  Cartwright  what  had  happened,  and 
assure  her  that  the  child  had  received  no  possible  harm ; 
Avhen,  whom  should  I  see  sitting  over  the  fire  but  the  last 
person  I  ever  expected  to  see  in  that  place ! 

Did  you  know  it  ?  was  it  by  your  advice  he  came  ?  what 
could  be  his  motive  in  coming  ?  or  was  it  done  merely  for 
a  whim — just  like  Francis  Charteris. 

"  Any  where  else  I  beheve  I  could  not  have  recognized 
him.  Not  from  his  shabbiness ;  even  in  rags,  Francis  would 
be  something  of  the  gentleman ;  but  from  his  utterly  broken-: 
down  appearance,  his  look  of  hopeless  indifference,  settled 
discontent ;  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  tried  all  things  and 
found  them  vanity. 

Seeing  me,  he  instinctively  set  down  the  child,  who  clung 
to  his  knees,  screaming  loudly  to  "  Daddy." 

Francis  blushed  violently,  and  then  laughed.  "  The  brat 
owns  me,  you  see ;  he  has  not  forgotten  me  ;  likes  me  also 
a  little,  which  can  not  be  said  for  most  people.  Heyday, 
no  getting  rid  of  him  ?  Come  along,  then,  young  man ;  I 
must  e'en  make  the  best  of  you." 

Franky,  nothing  loth,  clambered  up,  hugged  him  smoth- 
eringly  round  the  neck,  and  broke  into  his  own  triumphant 
"  Ha !  ha !  he !"     His  father  turned  and  kissed  him. 

Then,  somehow,  I  felt  as  if  it  were  easier  to  speak  to 
Francis  Charteris.  Only  a  word  or  two — inquiries  about 
his  health,  how  long  he  had  left  Liverpool,  and  whether  he 
meant  to  return. 

"  Of  course.  Only  a  day's  holiday.  A  horse  in  a  mill 
— ^that  is  what  I  am  now.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  grind  on 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter — eh,  Franky,  my  boy !" 

"Ha!  ha!  he!"  screamed  the  child,  with  another  de- 
lighted hug. 

"  He  seems  fond  of  you,"  I  said. 

"  Oh  yes ;  he  always  was."  Francis  sighed.  I  am  sure 
nature  was  tugging  hard  at  the  selfish  pleasure-loving 
heart.  And  pity— I  know  it  was  not  wrong.  Max ! — was 
pulling  sore  at  mine. 

I  said  I  had  heard  of  his  illness  in  the  winter,  and  was 


A   LIFE   FOE    A  LIFE.  849 

glad  to  find  him  so  mucli  recovered;  how  long  had  he 
been  about  again  ? 

"  How  long  ?  Indeed,  I  forget.  I  am  so  apt  to  forget 
things  now.  Except" — he  added  bitterly — "the  clerk's 
stool  and  the  office  window,  with  the  spider-webs  over  it, 
and  the  thirty  shilhngs  a  week.  That's  my  income,  Dora 
—I  beg  yom^  pardon.  Miss  Dora — I  forgot  I  was  no  longer 
a  gentleman,  but  a  clerk  at  thirty  shillings  a  week."  • 

I  said  I  did  not  see  why  that  should  make  him  less  of  a 
gentleman ;  and,  broken  down  as  he  was — sitting  crouching 
over  the  fire,  with  his  sickly  cheek  pressed  agamst  that 
rosy  one — I  fancied  I  saw  something  of  the  man — the  hon- 
est, true  man — flash  across  the  forlorn  aspect  of  poor  Fran- 
cis Charteris. 

I  would  have  liked  to  stay  and  talk  with  him,  and  said 
so,  but  my  sister  was  outside. 

"  Is  she  ?  will  she  be  coming  in  here  ?"  and  he  shrank 
nervously  into  his  corner.     "  I  have  been  so  ill,  you  know." 

He  need  not  be  afraid,  I  told  him ;  we  should  have  driven 
off  in  two  minutes.  There  was  not  the  slightest  chance  of 
their  meeting ;  in  all  human  probability  he  would  never 
meet  her  more. 

"N^ever  more!" 

I  had  not  thought  to  see  him  so  much  affected. 

"You  were  right,  Dora,  I  never  did  deserve  Penelope, 
yet  there  is  something  I  should  like  to  have  said  to  her. 
Stop,  hold  back  the  curtain;  she  can  not  see  me  sitting 
here?" 

"No." 

So,  as  she  drove  slowly  past,  Francis  watched  her.  I 
felt  more  than  glad — proud — that  he  should  see  the  face 
which  he  had  known  blooming  and  young,  and  which 
would  never  be  either  the  one  or  the  other  again  in  this 
w^orld,  and  that  he  should  see  how  peaceful  and  good  it  was. 

"  She  is  altered  strangely." 

I  asked,  in  momentary  fear,  did  he  think  her  looking  out 
of  health? 

.  "  Oh  no,  it  is  not  that ;  I  hardly  know  what  it  is ;"  then, 
as  with  a  sudden  impulse,  "  I  must  go  and  speak  to  Penel- 
ope." 

And  before  I  could  hinder  him  he  was  at  the  carriage 
side. 

'No  fear  of  a  "  scene."  They  met — oh  Max,  can  any  two 
people  so  meet  who  have  been  lovers  for  ten  yc^rs  ? 


350  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

It  might  have  been  that  the  emotion  of  the  last  few  min- 
utes left  her  in  that  state  when  no  occm-rence  seemed  un- 
expected or  strange,  but  Penelope,  when  she  saw  him,  only 
gave  a  slight  start,  and  then  looked  at  him  straight  in  the 
face  for  a  minute  or  so. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  have  been  ill." 

That  one  sentence  must  have  struck  him,  as  it  did  me, 
with  the  full  conviction  of  how  they  met — as  Penelope 
and  Francis  no  more-— merely  Miss  Johnston  and  Mr. 
Charteris. 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  almost  at  death's 
door.  I  should  have  died,  but  for  Doctor  Urquhart  and — 
one  other  person,  whose  name  I  discovered  by  accident.  I 
beg  to  thank  her  for  her  charity." 

He  blushed  scarlet  in  pronouncing  the  word.  My  sister 
tried  to  speak,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"  Needless  to  deny." 

"  I  never  deny  what  is  true,"  said  Penelope,  gravely.  "  I 
only  did  what  I  considered  right,  and  what  I  would  have 
done  for  any  person  whom  1  had  kn6wn  so  many  years. 
IsTor  would  I  have  done  it  at  all,  but  that  your  uncle  re- 
fused." 

"  I  had  rather  owe  it  to  you — twenty  times  over !"  he 
cried.  "Nay;  you  shall  not  be  annoyed  with  gratitude; 
I  came  but  to  own  my  debt — to  say,  if  I  live  I  will  repay 
it,  if  I  die—" 

She  looked  keenly  at  him.     "  You  will  not  die." 

"  Why  not  ?  What  have  I  to  live  for — a  ruined,  disap- 
pointed, disgrtced  man  ?  No,  no ;  my  chance  is  over  for 
this  world,  and  I  do  not  care  how  soon  I  get  out  of  it." 

"  I  would  rather  hear  of  your  living  worthily  in  it." 

"  Too  late— too  late !" 

"  Indeed,  it  is  not  too  late." 

Penelope's  voice  was  very  earnest,  and  had  a  slight  fal- 
ter that  startled  even  me.  No  wonder  it  misled  Francis — 
he  who  never  had  a  particularly  low  opmion  of  himself,  and 
who  for  so  many  years  had  been  fully  aware  of  a  fact 
which,  I  once  heard  Max  say,  ought  always  to  make  a  man 
humble  rather  than  vain — ^how  deeply  a  fond  woman  had 
loved  him. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  That  you  have  no  cause  for  all  this  despair.  You  are 
a  young  man  still ;  your  health  may  improve  ;  you  are  free 
from  debt,  and  have  enough  to  live  upon.     Whatever  dis- 


A   LIPE    FOR    A   LLFE.  351 

agreeables  your  position  has,  it  is  a  beginning ;  you  may 
rise.  A  long  and  prosperous  career  may  lie  before  you 
yet ;  I  hope  so." 

"Do  you?" 

Max,  I  trembled,  for  he  looked  at  her  as  he  used  to  look 
when  they  were  young.  And  it  seems  so  hard  to  believe 
that  love  ever  can  die  out.  I  thought,  what  if  this  exceed- 
ing calmness  of  my  sister  should  be  only  the  cloak  which 
pride  puts  on  to  hide  intolerable  pain  ?  But  I  was  mis- 
taken. And  now  I  marvel,  not  that  he,  but  that  I,  who 
know  my  sister  as  a  sister  ought,  could  for  an  instant  have 
seen  in  those  soft,  sad  eyes  any  thing  beyond  what  her 
words  expressed — the  more  plainly,  as  they  were  such  ex- 
tremely land  and  gentle  words. 

Francis  came  closer,  and  said  something  m  a  low  voice, 
of  which  I  only  caught  the  last  sentence, 

"  Penelope,  will  you  trust  me  again  ?" 

I  would  have  slipped  away,  but  my  sister  detained_me ; 
tightly  her  fingers  closed  on  muie,  but  she  answered  Fran- 
cis composedly, 

"  I  do  not  quite  comprehend  you." 

"  Will  you  forgive  and  forget  ?     Will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"  Francis !"  I  exclaimed  indignantly,  but  Penelope  put 
her  hand  upon  my  mouth. 

"  That  is  right.  Don't  listen  to  Dor& ;  she  always  hated 
me.  Listen  to  me,  Penelope,  you  shall  make  me  any  thing 
you  choose ;  you  would  be  the  saving  of  me — that  is,  if 
you  could  put  up  with  such  a  broken,  sickly,  ill-tempered 
wretch." 

"Poor  Francis!"  and  she  just  touched  him  with  her 
hand. 

He  caught  it  and  kept  it.  Then  Penelope  seemed  to 
wake  up  as  out  of  a  dream. 

"You  must  not,"  she  said  hurriedly;  "you  must  not 
hold  my  hand." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  love  you  any  more." 

It  was  so  ;  he  could  not  doubt  it.  The  vainest  man  alive 
must,  I  think,  have  discerned  at  once  that  my  sister  spoke 
out  of  neither  caprice  or  revenge,  but  in  simple  sadness  of 
truth.  Francis  must  have  felt  almost  by  instinct  that, 
whether  broken  or  not,  the  heart  so  long  his  was  his  no 
longer — the  love  was  gone. 

Whether  the  mere  knowledge  of  this  made  his  own  re- 


352  A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE. 

vwe,  or  whether,  findmg  himself  in  the  old  familiar  places 
— this  walk  was  a  favorite  walk  of  theirs — the  Avhole  feel- 
ing returned  in  a  measure  I  can  not  tell ;  I  do  not  like  to 
judge.  But  I  am  certain  that,  for  the  time,  Francis  suffer- 
ed acutely. 

"  Do  you  hate  me,  then  ?"  said  he,  at  length. 

"  No ;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  very  kindly  toward  you. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  for  you." 

"  ExcejDt  marry  me  ?" 

"Even  so." 

"Well,  well;  perhaps  you  are  right.  I,  a  poor  clerk, 
with  neither  health,  nor  Income,  nor  prospects — " 

He  stopped,  and  no  wonder,  before  the  rebuke  of  my  sis- 
ter's eyes. 

"  Francis,  you  know  you  are  not  speaking  as  you  think. 
You  know  I  have  given  you  my  true  reason,  and  my  only 
one.  If  we  were  engaged  still,  in  outward  form,  I  should 
say  ^xactly  the  same,  for  a  broken  promise  is  less  wicked 
than  a  deceitful  vow.  One  should  not  marry — one  ought 
not — when  one  has  ceased  to  love." 

Francis  made  her  no  reply.  The  sense  of  all  he  had  lost, 
now  that  he  had  lost  it,  seemed  to  come  upon  him  heavily, 
overwhelmingly.  His  first  words  were  the  saddest  and 
humblest  I  ever  heard  from  Francis  Charteris. 

"  I  deserve  it  all.  Ko  wonder  you  will  never  forgive 
me." 

Penelope  smiled — a  very  mournful  smile. 

"At  your  old  habit  of  jumping  at  conclusions.!  Indeed, 
I  have  forgiven  you  long  ago.  Perhaps,  had  I  been  less 
faulty  myself,  I  might  have  had  more  influence  over  you. 
But  all  was  as  it  was  to  be,  I  suppose ;  and  it  is  over  now. 
Do  not  let  us  revive  it." 

She  sighed  and  sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  looking  ab- 
sently across  the  moorland;  then,  with  a  sort  of  Avistful 
tenderness — the  tenderness  which,  one  clearly  saw,  forever 
prevents  and  excludes  love — on  Francis. 

"I  know  not  how  it  is,  Francis,  but  you  seem  to  me 
Francis  no  longer^quite  another  person.  I  can  not  tell 
how  the  love  has  gone,  but  it  is  gone — as  completely  as  if 
it  had  never  existed.  Sometimes  I  was  afraid  if  I  saw  you 
it  might  come  back  again ;  but  I  have  seen  you,  and  it  is 
not  there.     It  never  can  return  again  any  more." 

"And  so,  from  henceforth,  I  am  no  more  to  you  than 
any  stranger  in  the  street  ?" 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  353 

"  I  did  not  say  that — it  would  not  be  true.  Nothing  you 
do  will  ever  be  indifferent  to  me.  If  you  do  wrong — oh, 
Francis,  it  hurts  me  so !  it  will  hurt  me  to  the  day  of  my 
death.  I  care  little  for  your  being  very  prosperous  or  very 
happy — possibly  no  one  is  happy;  but  I  want  you  to  be 
good.  We  were  young  together,  and  I  was  very  proud  of 
you ;  let  me  be  proud  of  you  again  as  we  grow  old." 

"  And  yet  you  will  not  maijry  me  ?" 

"  No,  for  I  do  not  love  you ;  and  never  could  again,  no 
more  than  I  could  love  another  woman's  husband.  Fran- 
cis," speaking  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  you  know  as  well  as 
I  do  that  there  is  one  person,  and  only  one,  whom  you 
ought  to  marry."  * 

He  shrank  back,  and,  for  the  second  time — the  first  being 
when  I  found  him  with  his  boy  in  his  arms — Francis  turn- 
ed scarlet  with  honest  shame. 

"  Is  it  you — is  it  Penelope  Johnston  who  can  say  this  ?" 

"  It  is  Penelope  Johnston." 

"And  you  say  it  to  me ?" 

'^  To  you." 

"  You  think  it  would  be  right  ?" 

"I  do." 

There  were  long  pauses  between  each  of  these  questions, 
but  my  sister's  answers  were  unhesitating.  The  grave  de- 
cision of  them  seemed  to  smite  home — home  to  the  very 
heart  of  Francis  Charteris.  When  his  confusion  and  sur- 
prise abated,  he  stood  with  eyes  cast  down,  deeply  pon- 
dering. 

"  Poor  little  soul !"  he  muttered.  "  So  fond  of  me,  too 
— ^fond  and  faithful.  She  would  be  faithful  to  me  to  the 
end  of  my  days." 

"  I  believe  she  would,"  answered  Penelope. 

Here  arose  a  piteous  cry  of  "  Daddy,  daddy !"  and  little 
Franky,  burstmg  from  the  cottage,  came  and  threw  himself 
in  a  perfect  paroxysm  of  joy  upon  his  father.  Then  I  un- 
derstood clearly  how  a  good  and  religious  woman  like  our 
Penelope  could  not  possibly  have  continued  loving,  or 
thought  of  marrying,  Francis  Charteris,  any  more  than  if, 
as  she  said,  he  had  been  another  woman's  husband. 

"  Dora,  pray  don't  take  the  child  away.  Let  him  remain 
with  his  father." 

And  from  her  tone,  Francis  himself  must  have  felt — if 
farther  confirmation  were  needed — that  nov/  and  hence, 
forth  Penelope  Johnston  could  never  view  him  in  any  oth- 
er light  than  as  Franky's  father. 


354  A  LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

He  submitted — it  always  was  a  relief  to  Francis  to  have 
things  decided  for  him.  Besides,  he  seemed  really  fond  of 
the  boy.  To  see  how  patiently  he  let  Franky  clamber  up 
him,  and  finally  mount  on  his  shoulder,  riding  astride,  and 
making  a  bridle  of  his  hair,  gave  one  a  kindly  feeling — nay, 
a  sort  of  respect  for  this  poor  sick  man  whom  his  child  com- 
forted, and  who,  however  erring  he  had  been,  was  now,  nor 
was  ashamed  to  be,  a  father. 

"  You  don't  hate  me,  Franky  ?"  he  said,  w^ith  a  sudden 
kiss  upon  the  fondling  face.  "  You  owe  me  no  grudge, 
though  you  might,  poor  little  scamp !  You  are  not  a  bit 
ashamed  of  me ;  and,  by  God"  (it  was  more  a  vow  than 
an  oath)  "I'll  never  be  ashamed  of  you." 

"I  trust  in  God  you  never-  will,"  said  Penelope,  sol- 
emnly. 

And  then,  with  that  peculiar  softness  of  voice,  which^  I 
now  notice  whenever  she  speaks  of  or  to  children,  she  said 
a  few  words,  the  substance  of  which  I  remember  Lisabel 
and  myself  quizzing  her  for  years  ago,  irritating  her  with 
the  old  joke  about  old  bachelors'  wives  and  old  maids'  chil- 
dren— ^namely,  that  those  who  are  childless,  and  know  they 
will  die  so,  often  see  more  clearly  and  feel  more  deeply  than 

Earents  themselves  the  heavy  responsibilities  of  parent- 
ood. 

'Not  that  she  said  this  exactly,  but  you  could  read  it  in 
her  eyes,  as  in  a  few  simple  words  she  praised  Franky's 
beauty,  hinted  what  a  solemn  thing  it  was  to  own  such  a 
son,  and,  if  properly  brought  up,  what  a  comfort  he  might 
grow. 

Francis  listened  with  a  reverence  that  was  beyond  all 
love,  and  a  humility  touching  to  see.  I,  too,  silently  ob- 
serving them  both,  could  not  help  hearkening  even  with  a 
sort  of  awe  to  every  word  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  sis- 
ter Penelope.  All  the  while  hearing,  in  a  vague  fashion, 
the  last  evening  song  of  my  lark,  as  he  went  up  merrily 
into  his  cloud — -just  as  I  have  watched  him,  or  rather  his 
progenitors,  numberless  times,  when,  along  this  very  road, 
I  used  to  lag  behind  Francis  and  Penelope,  wondering  what 
on  earth  they  were  talking  about,  and  how  queer  it  was 
that  they  never  noticed  any  thing  or  any  body  except  one 
another. 

Heigho !  how  times  change ! 

But  no  sighing :  I  could  not  sigh ;  I  did  not.  My  heart 
was  full,  Max,  but  not  with  pain.  .  For  I  am  learning  to 


A   LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  355 

understand  what  you  often  said,  what  I  suppose  we  shall 
see  clearly  in  the  next  life  if  not  in  this — that  the  only  per- 
manent pain  on  earth  is  sin.  And,  looking  in  my  sister's 
dear  face,  I  felt  how  blessed  above  all  mere  happuiess,  is 
the  peace  of  those  who  have  suffered  and  overcome  suffer- 
ing, who  have  been  sinned  against  and  have  forgiven. 

After  this,  when  Franky,  tired  out,  dropped  suddenly 
asleep,  as  children  do,  his  father  and  Penelope  talked  a 
good  while,  she  inquiring,  in  her  sensible,  practical  way, 
about  his  circumstances  and  prospects ;  he  aMswering,  can- 
didly and  apparently  truthfully,  without  any  hesitation,  an- 
ger, or  pride ;  every  now  and  then  looking  doT\T3,  at  the 
least  movement  of  the  pretty,  sleepy  face ;  while  a  soft  ex- 
pression, quite  new  in  Francis  Charteris,  brightened  his 
own.  There  was  even  a  degree  of  cheerfulness  and  hope 
in  his  manner,  as  he  said,  in  reply  to  some  suggestion  of 
my  sister's,  "  Then  you  think,  as  Doctor  Urquhart  did,  that 
my  life  is  worth  preserving — that  I  may  turn  out  not  such 
a  bad  man  after  all." 

"  How  could  a  man  be  any  thing  but  a  good  man,  who 
really  felt  what  it  is  to  be  the  father  of  a  child  ?" 

Francis  replied  nothing,  but  he  held  his  little  son  closer 
to  his  breast.  Who  knows  but  that  the  pretty  boy  may 
be  heaven's  messenger  to  save  the  father's  soul  ? 

You  see.  Max,  I  still  like,  in  my  old  moralizing  habit,  to 
"justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  to  try  and  perceive  the 
use  of  pain,  the  reason  of  punishment ;  and  to  feel,  not  only 
by  faith,  but  experience,  that,  dark  as  are  the  ways  of  In- 
finite Mercy,  they  are  all  safe  ways.  ^'AU  tJmigs  tcorJc  to- 
gether for  good  to  them  that  love  Him." 

And  so,  watching  these  two,  talking  so  quietly  and  friend- 
ly together,  I  thought  how  glad  my  Max  would  be ;  I  re- 
membered all  my  Max  had  done — Penelope  knows  it  now ; 
I  told  her  that  night.  And,  sad  and  anxious  as  I  am  about 
you  and  many  things,  there  came  over  my  heart  one  of 
those  sudden  sunshiny  refts  of  peace,  when  we  feel  that 
whether  or  not  all  is  happy,  all  is  well. 

Francis  walked  along  by  the  pony-carriage  for  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  or  more. 

"  I  must  turn  now.  This  little  man  ought  to  have  been 
in  his  bed  an  hour  or  more ;  he  always  used  to  be.  His 
mother — "  Francis  stopped — "  I  beg  your  pardon."  Then, 
hugging  the  boy  in  a  sudden  passion  of  remorse,  he  said, 
"  Penelope,  if  you  want  your  revenge,  take  this.     You  can 


356  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

not  tell  what  a  man  feels,  who,  when  the  heyday  of  youth 
is  gone,  longs  for  a  home,  a  vh'tnous  home,  yet  knows  that 
he  never  can  oifer  or  receive  unblemished  honor  with  his 
wife — never  give  his  lawful  name  to  liis  first-born." 

This  was  the  sole  allusion  made  openly  to  what  both 
tacitly  understood  was  to  be,  and  which  you,  as  well  as 
we,  will  agree  is  the  best  thing  that  can  be,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

And  here  I  have  to  say  to  you,  both  from  my  sister  and 
myself,  that  if  Francis  desires  to  make  Lydia  Cartwright 
his  wife,  and  she  is  willing,  tell  them  both  that  if  she  will 
come  direct  from  the  jail  to  Rockmount,  we  will  receive 
her  kindly,  provide  every  thing  suitable  for  her  (since  Fran- 
cis must  be  very  poor,  and  they  will  have  to  begin  house- 
keeping on  the  humblest  scale),  and  take  care  that  she  is 
married  in  comfort  and  credit.  Also,  say  that  former 
things  shall  never  be  remembered  against  her,  but  that  she 
shall  be  treated  henceforward  with  the  respect  due  to 
Francis's  wife ;  in  some  things,  poor  loving  soul,  a  better 
wife  than  he  deserves. 

So  he  left  us.     Whether  in  this  world  he  and  Penelope 
will  ever  meet  again,  who  knows  ?     He  seemed  to  have  a 
foreboding  that  they  never  will,  for,  in  parting,  he  asked,' 
hesitatingly,  if  she  Avould  shake  hands  ? 

She  did  so,  looking  earnestly  at  him — her  first  love,  who, 
had  he  been  true  to  himself  and  to  her,  might  have  been 
her  love  forever.  Then  I  saw  her  eye  wander  down  to  the 
little  head  which  nestled  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Will  you  kiss  my  boy,  Penelope  ?" 

My  sister  leaned  over,  and  touched  Franky's  forehead 
with  her  lips. 

"  God  bless  him !     God  bless  you  all !" 

These  were  her  last  words,  and  however  long  both  may 
live,  I  have  a  conviction  that  they  will  be  her  last  words — 
to  Francis  Charteris. 

He  went  back  to  the  cottage;  and  through  the  rosy 
spring  twilight,  with  a  strangely  solemn  feeling,  as  if  we 
were  entering  upon  a  new  spring  in  another  world,,  Penel- 
ope and  I  drove  home. 

And  now,  Max,  I  have  told  you  all  about  these.  About 
myself — 

No,  I'll  not  try  to  deceive  you ;  God  knows  how  true 
my  heart  is,  and  how  sharp  and  sore  is  this  pain. 

Dear  Max,  write  to  me ;  if  there  is  any  trouble,  I  can 


A   LIFE    FOE   A   LIFE.  857 

«- 

bear  it ;  any  wrongs — supposing  Max  could  do  me  wrong — 
I'll  forgive.  I  fear  nothing,  and  nothing  has  power  to 
grieve  me,  so  long  as  you  hold  me  fast,  as  I  hold  you. 

Your  faithful  Theodora. 

P.S. — A  wonderful,  wonderful  thing — it  only  happened 
last  night.     It  hardly  feels  real  yet. 

Max,  last  night,  after  I  had  done  reading,  paj^a  mention- 
ed your  name  of  his  own  accord. 

He  said  Penelope,  in  asking  his  leave,  as  we  thought  it 
right  to  do  before  we  sent  that  message  to  Lydia,  had  told 
him  the  whole  story  about  your  goodness  to  Francis.  He 
then  inquired  abruptly  how  long  it  was  since  I  had  seen 
Doctor  Urquhart  ? 

I  told  him  never  since  that  day  in  the  library,  now  a  year 
ago. 

"  And  when  do  you  expect  to  see  him  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know."  And  all  the  bitterness  of  parting — 
the  terrors  lest  life's  infinite  chances  should  make  this  part- 
ing perj)etual — the  munnurs  that  will  rise,  why  hundreds 
and  thousands  who  care  little  for  one  another  should  be 
always  together,  while  we — we — oh.  Max !  it  all  broke  out 
in  a  sob,  "Papa,  papa,  how  cm%  I  know?" 

My  father  looked  at  me  as  if  he  would  read  me  through. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  and  an  honorable.  He  is  honor- 
able too.  He  would  never  persuade  a  child  to  disobey  her 
father." 

"  No,  never." 

"  Tell  him" — and  papa  turned  his  head  away,  but  he  did 
Ray  it,  I  could  not  mistake,  "  tell  Doctor  Urquhart  if  he 
likes  to  come  over  to  Rockmount,  for  one  day  only,  I  shall 
not  see  him,  but  you  may." 

Max,  come.  Only  for  one  day  of  holiday  rest.  It  would 
do  you  good.  There  are  green  leaves  in  the  garden,  and 
smishine  and  larks  in  the  moorland,  and — there  is  me. 
Come! 


CHAPTEPv  XXXV. 

HIS    STOET. 


My  deae  Theodoea, — I  did  not  write,  because  I  could 
not.  In  some  states  of  mind  nothing  seems  jDossible  to  a 
man  but  silence.    Forgive  me,  my  love,  my  comfort  and  joy. 


358  A   LIFE    FOR    A   LIFE. 

I  have  suftered  much,  but  it  is  over  now,  at  least  the  sus- 
pense of  it ;  and  I  can  tell  you  all,  with  the  calmness  that 
I  myself  now  feel.  You  are  right ;  we  love  one  another ; 
we  need  not  be  afraid  of  any  tribulation. 

Before  entering  on  my  afiairs,  let  me  answer  your  letter 
— all  but  its  last  word,  "  Come !"  My  other  self,  my  better 
conscience,  will  herself  answer  that. 

The  substance  of  what  you  tell  me,  I  already  know. 
Francis  Chart eris  came  to  me  on  Sunday  week,  and  asked 
for  Lydia.  They  were  married  two  days  after — I  gave  the 
bride  away.  Since  then  I  have  drunk  tea  with  them  at  his 
lodging,  which,  poor  as  it  is,  has  already  the  cheerful  com- 
fort of  a  home  with  a  woman  in  it,  and  that  woman  a  wife. 

I  left  them — Mr.  Charteris  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  his 
boy  on  his  knee ;  he  seems  passionately  fond  of  the  little 
scapegrace,  who  is,  as  you  said,  his  very  picture.  But  more 
than  once  I  caught  his  eyes  following  Lydia  with  a  wistful, 
grateful  tenderness. 

"  The  most  sensible  practical  girl  imaginable,"  he  said, 
during  her  momentary  absence  from  the  room ;  "  and  she 
knows  all  my  ways,  and  is  so  patient  with  them.  '  A  poor 
wench,'  as  Shakspeare  hath  it.  '  A  poor  wench,  sir,  but 
mine  own.' " 

For  her,  she  busied  herself  about  house  matters,  humble 
and  silent,  except  when  her  husband  spoke  to  her,  and  then 
her  whole  face  brightened.  Poor  Lydia!  N'one  familiar 
with  her  story  are  hkely  to  see  much  of  her  again ;  Mr. 
Charteris  seems  to  wish,  and  for  very  natural  reasons,  that 
they  should  begin  the  world  entirely  afresh;  but  we  may 
fairly  believe  one  thing  concerning  her,  as  concerning  an- 
other poor  sinner — '-'•Her  sins,  tchich  were  maiiy,  are  for- 
given, for  she  loved  muchP 

After  I  returned  from  them,  I  found  your  letter.  It  made 
me  cease  to  feel  what  I  have  often  felt  of  late,  as  if  hope 
were  knocking  at  every  door  except  mine. 

I  told  you  once  never  to  be  ashamed  of  showing  me  that 
you  loved  me.  Do  not  be ;  such  love  is  a  woman's  glory, 
and  a  man's  salvation. 

Let  me  now  say  what  is  to  be  said  about  myself,  begin- 
ning at  the  beginning. 

I  mentioned  to  you  once  that  I  had  here  a  good  many 
enemies,  but  that  I  should  soon  live  them  down ;  which,  for 
some  time  I  hoped  and  believed,  and  still  believe  that  it 
would  have  been  so  under  ordinary  circumstances.    I  have 


A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE.  359 

ever  held  that  truth  is  stronger  than  falsehood — that  an 
honest  man  has  but  to  sit  still,  let  the  storm  blow  over,  and 
bide  his  time.  It  does  not  shake  this  doctrine  that  things 
have  fallen  out  differently  with  me. 

For  some  time  I  had  seen  the  cloud  gathering)  caught 
evil  reports  flying  about ;  noticed  that,  in  society  or  in  pub- 
lic meetings,  now  and  then  an  acquaintance  gave  me  the 
"  cold  shoulder."  Also,  what  troubled  me  more,  for  it  was 
a  hinder ance  felt  daily,  my  influence  and  authority  in  the 
jail  did  not  seem  quite  what  they  used  to  be.  I  met  no 
tangible  affi-ont,  certainly,  and  all  was  tolerably  smooth  sail- 
mg  till  I  had  to  find  fault,  and  then,  as  you  know,  a  feather 
will  shov/  which  way  the  wind  blows. 

It  was  a  new  experience,  for,  at  the  worst  of  times,  in 
camp  or  hospital,  my  poor  fellows  always  loved  me — I  found 
it  hard.    . 

More  scurrilous  newspaper  paragraphs,  the  last  and  least 
obnoxious  of  which  I  sent  you  lest  you  might  hear  of  it  in 
some  other  way,  followed  those  proceedings  of  mine  con- 
cerning reformatories.  Two  articles — the  titles,  "Physi- 
cian, heal  thyself,"  and  "  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief,"  will 
give  you  an  idea  of  their  tenor — went  so  far  as  to  be  action- 
able libels.  Several  j^ersons  here,  our  chaplain  especially, 
urged  me  to  take  legal  proceedings  m  defense  of  my  char- 
acter, but  I  declined. 

One  day,  arguing  the  point,  the  chaplain  j^ressed  me  for 
my  reasons,  which  I  gave  him,  and  wiU  give  you,  for  I  have 
since  had  only  too  much  occasion  to  remember  them  liter- 

I  said  I  had  always  had  an  instinctive  dislike  and  dread 
of  the  law ;  that  a  man  was  good  for  little  if  he  could  not 
defend  himself  by  any  better  weapons  than  the  verdict  of 
an  ignorant  jury,  and  a  specious,  sometimes  lying,  barrister's 
tongue. 

The  old  clergyman,  alarmed,  "  hoped  I  was  not  a  duel- 
ist," at  which  I  only  smiled.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to 
take  the  trouble  of  denying  any  such  ridiculous  purpose. 
I  knew  not  how,  when  once  the  ball  is  set  rolling  against  a 
man,  his  lightest  words  are  made  to  gather  Aveight  and 
meaning,  his  very  looks  are  brought  in  judgment  ujTon  him. 

It  is  the  way  of  the  world. 

You  see  I  can  moralize,  a  sign  that  I  am  recovering  my. 
self;  I  think,  with  the  rehef  of  telling  all  out  to  you. 

"  But,"  reasoned  the  chaplain,  "  when  a  man  is  innocent. 


360  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

why  should  he  not  declare  it  ?  Why  sit  tamely  under  cal- 
umny ?"  It  is  unwise,  nay,  unsafe.  You  are  almost  a  stran- 
ger liere,  and  we  in  the  provinces  like  to  find  out  every 
thing  about  every  body.  If  I  might  suggest,"  and  he  apol- 
ogized for  what  he  called  the  friendly  impertinence,  "  why 
not  be  a  little  less  modest,  a  little  more  free  with  your  per- 
sonal history,  which  must  have  been  a  remarkable  one,  and 
let  some  friend,  in  a  quiet,  delicate  way,  see  that  the  truth 
is  as  widely  disseminated  as  the  slander  ?  If  you  will  trust 
me — " 

"  I  could  not  choose  a  better  pleader,"  said  I,  gratefully; 
"  but  it  is  impossible." 

"  How  so  ?  A  man  like  you  can  have  nothing  to  dread 
— ^nothing  to  conceal." 

I  said  again,  all  -I  could  find  words  to  say, 

"  It  is  impossible." 

He  urged  no  more,  but  I  soon  felt  painfully  certain  that 
some  involuntary  distrust  lurked  in  the  good  man's  mind, 
and  though  he  continued  the  same  to  me  in  all  our  business 
relations,  a  cloud  came  over  our  private  intercourse,  which 
was  never  removed. 

About  this  time  another  incident  occurred.  You  know 
I  have  a  little  friend  here,  the  governor's  motherless  daugh- 
ter, a  bonnie  wee  child  whom  I  meet  in  the  garden  some- 
times, where  we  water  her  flowers,  and  have  long"  chats 
about  birds,  beasts,  and  the  wonders  of  foreign  parts.  I 
even  have  given  a  present  or  two  to  this,  my  child-sweet- 
heart.    Are  you  jealous?     She  has  your  eyes ! 

Well,  one  day  when  I  called  Lucy,  she  came  to  me  slow- 
ly, with  a  shy,  sad  countenance ;  and  I  found  out  after 
some  pains  that  her  nurse  had  desired  her  not  to  play  with 
Doctor  Urquhart  again,  because  he  was  "  naughty." 

Doctor  Urquhart  smilingly  inquired  what  he  had  done  ? 

The  child  hesitated. 

"  ISTurse  does  not  exactly  know,  but  she  says  it  is  some- 
thing very  wicked — as  wicked  as  any  thing  done  by  the 
bad  people  in  here.  But  it  isn't  true — tell  Lucy  it  isn't 
true?" 

It  was  hard  to  put  aside  the  little  loving  face,  but  I  saw 
the  nurse  coming.  ISTot  an  ill-meaning  body,  but  one  whom 
I  knew  for  as  arrant  a  gossip  as  any  in  the  place.  Her 
comments  on  myself  troubled  me  little ;  I  concluded  it  was 
but  the  result  of  that  newspaper  tattle,  against  which  I  was 
growmg  hardened ;  nevertheless,  I  thought  it  best  just  to 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  361 

say  that  I  had  heard  with  much  surprise  what  she  had 
been  telling  Miss  Lucj. 

"  Children  and  fools  speak  truth,"  said  the  woman  sau- 
cily. 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be  the  more  careful  that  children 
always  hear  the  truth."  And  I  insisted  upon  her  repeat- 
ing all  the  ridiculous  tales  she  had  been  circulating  about 
me. 

When,  with  difficulty,  I  got  the  facts  out  of  her,  they 
were  not  what  I  expected,  but  these :  Somebody  in  the 
Jail  had  told  somebody  else  how  Doctor  Urquhart  had 
been  in  former  days  such  an  abandoned  character,  that  still 
his  evil  conscience  always  drove  him  among  criminals; 
made  him  haunt  jails,  prisons,  reformatories,  and.  take  an 
interest  in  every  form  of  vice.  Kay,  people  had  heard  me 
say — and  truly  they  might  l— apropos  to  a  late  hanging  at 
Kirkdale;  that  I  had  sympathy,  even  for  a  miu'derer. 

I  listened — you  will  imagine  how— ^to  all  this. 

For  an  instant  I  was  overwhelmed ;  I  felt  as  if  God  had 
forsaken  me,  as  if  His  mercy  were  a  delusion.  His  punish- 
ments never-ending,  His  justice  never  satisfied.  Despite 
my  promise  to  your  father,  I  might  in  some  fatal  way  have 
betrayed  myself,  even  on  the  spot,  had  I  not  heard  the  lit- 
tle girl  saying,  with  a  sob,  almost — poor  pet ! 

'^For  shame,  nurse  1  Doctor  Urquhart  isn't  a  wicked 
man ;  Lucy  loves  him." 

And  I  remembered  you. 

'^  My  child,"  I  said  in  a  whisper,  "  we  are  all  wicked,  but 
we  may  all  be  forgiven ;  I  trust  God  has  forgiven  me ;" 
and  I  walked  away  without  another  word. 

But  since  then  I  have  thought  it  best  to  avoid  the  gov- 
ernor's garden;  and  it  has  cost  me  more  pain  than  you 
would  imagine — the  contriving  always  to  pass  at  a  dis- 
tance, so  as  to  get  only  a  nod  and  a  smile,  which  can  not 
harm  her,  from  httle  Lucy. 

About  this  time — it  might  be  two  or  three  days  after, 
for  out  of  work-hours  I  little  noticed  how  time  passed — an 
unpleasant  circumstance  occurred  with  Lucy's  father. 

I  must  have  told  you  of  him,  for  he  is  a  remarkable  man  ; 
young  still,  and  well-looking,  with  manners  like  his  features, 
hard  as  iron,  though  delicate  and  polished  as  steel.  He 
seems  born  to  be  the  ruler  of  criminals.  Brutahty,  mean- 
ness, or  injustice  would  be  impossible  to  him.  Likewise, 
another  thing — ^mercy. 

Q 


362  A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE. 

It  was  on  this  point  that  he  and  I  had  our  difference. 

We  met  in  the  east  ward,  when  he  pointed  out  to  me  in 
passing  the  announcement  on  the  centre  slate  of  "  a  boy  to 
be  whipped." 

It  seems  ridiculous,  but  the  words  sickened  me.  For  I 
knew  the  boy,  knew  also  his  offense ;  and  that  such  a  pun- 
ishment would  be  the  first  step  toward  converting  a  mere 
headstrong  lad,  sent  here  for  a  street  row,  into  a  hardened 
rufiian.     I  pleaded  for  him  strongly. 

The  governor  listened — polite,  but  inflexible. 

I  went  on  speaking  with  unusual  warmth ;  you  know  my 
horror  of  these  floggings ;  you  know,  too,  my  opinion  on 
the  system  of  punishment,  viewed  as  mere  punishment,  with 
no  ulterior  aim  at  reformation.  I  believe  it  is  only  our 
blinded  human  interpretation  of  things  spiritual,  which 
transforms  the  immutable  law  that  evil  is  its  own  avenger 
and  that  the  wi'ath  of  God,  against  sin  must  be  as  everlast- 
ing as  His  pity  for  sinners — into  the  doctrine  of  eternal  tor- 
ment, the  worm  that  dieth  not,  and  the  fire  that  is  never 
quenched. 

The  governor  heard  all  I  had  to  say ;  then,  politely  al- 
ways, regretted  that  i*  was  impossible  either  to  grant  my 
request,  or  release  me  from  my  duty. 

"  There  is,  however,  one  course  which  I  may  suggest  to 
Doctor  Urquhart,  considering  his  very  peculiar  opinions, 
and  his  known  sympathy  with  criminals.  Do  you  not 
think  it  might  be  more  agreeable  to  you  to  resign  ?" 

The  words  were  nothing ;  but  as  he  fixed  on  me  that 
keen  eye,  which,  he  boasts,  can  without  need  of  judge  or 
jury  detect  a  man's  guilt  or  innocence,  I  felt  convinced 
that  with  him  too  my  good  name  was  gone.  It  was  no 
longer  a  battle  with  mere  side-winds  of  slander — the  storm 
had  begun. 

I  might  have  sunk  like  a  coward,  if  there  were  only  my- 
self to  be  crushed  under  it.  As  it  was,  I  looked  the  gov- 
ernor in  the  face. 

"  Have  you  any  special  motive  for  this  suggestion  ?" 

"I  have  stated  it." 

"Then  allow  me  to  state  that,  whatever  my  opinions 
may  be,  so  long  as  my  services  are  useful  here,  I  have  not 
the  slightest  wish  or  intention  of  resigning." 

He  bowed,  and  we  parted. 

The  boy  was  flogged.  I  said  to  him,  *'  Bear  it ;  better 
confess" — as  he  had  done — "  confess  and  be  punished  now. 


1  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE.  363 

It  will  then  be  over."  And  I  hope,  by  the  grateful  look 
of  the  poor  young  wretch,  that  with  the  pain,  the  punish- 
ment was  over ;  that  my  pity  helped  him  to  endure  it,  so 
that  it  did  not  harden  him,  but,  with  a  little  help,  he  may 
become  an  honest  lad  yet. 

When  I  left  him  in  his  cell,  I  rather  envied  him. 

It  now  became  necessary  to  look  to  my  own  affairs,  and 
discover,  if  possible,  all  that  report  alleged  against  me — 
false  or  true — as  well  as  the  originator  of  these  statements. 
Him  I  at  last  by  the  merest  chance  discovered. 

My  little  lady,  with  her  quick,  warm  feehngs,  must  learn 
to  forgive,  as  I  have  long  ago  forgiven.  It  was  Mr.  Fran- 
cis Charteris. 

I  believe  still,  it  was  less  from  malice  premeditated,  than 
from  a  mere  propensity  for  talking,  and  that  looseness  and 
inaccuracy  of  speech  which  he  always  had — that  he,  when 
idlmg  away  his  time  in  the  debtors'  ward  of  this  jail,  re- 
peated, probably  with  extempore  additions,  what  your  sis- 
ter Penelope  once  mentioned  to  him  concerning  me — name- 
ly, that  I  was  once  about,  to  be  married,  when  the  lady's 
father  discovered  a  crime  I  had  committed  in  my  youth — 
w^hether  dishonesty,  dueling,  seduction,  or  w^hat,  he  could 
not  say — but  it  was  something  absolutely  unpardonable  by 
an  honorable  man,  and  the  marriage  was  forbidden.  On 
this,  all  the  reports  against  me  had  been  grounded. 

After  hearing  this  story,  which  one  of  the  turnkeys, 
whose  children  were  down  with  fever,  told  me  while  watch- 
ing by  their  bedside,  begging  my  pardon  for  doing  it,  hon- 
est man!  I  went  and  took  a  long  walk  down  the  Water- 
loo shore,  to  calm  myself,  and  consider  my  position.  For 
I  knew  it  was  in  vain  to  struggle  any  more.     I  was  ruined. 

An  innocent  man  might  have  fought  on ;  how  any  one, 
with  a  clear  conscience,  is  ever  conquered  by  slander,  or 
afraid  of  it,  I  can  not  understand.  With  a  clean  heart,  and 
truth  on  his  tongue,  a  man  ought  to  be  as  bold  as  a  lion. 
I  should  have  been ;  but —    My  love,  you  know. 

This  Waterloo  shore  has  always  been  a  favorite  haunt 
of  mine.  You  once  said,  you  should  like  to  live  by  the 
sea ;  and  I  have  never  heard  the  ripple  of  the  tide  without 
thinking  of  you — never  seen  the  little  children  playing 
about  and  digging  on  the  sands  without  thinkmg — God 
help  me !  if  one  keeps  silence,  it  is  not  because  one  does 
not  feel  the  knife.  "Who  would  have  thought  the  old 
man  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ?" 


364  A    LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

Let  me  stop.  I  will  not  paiii  you,  my  love,  more  than  I 
can  helj^.  Besides,  as  I  told  you,  the  worst  of  my  sufiering 
is  ended. 

I  believe  I  must  have  sat  till  nightfall  among  the  sand-. 
hills  by  the  shore.  For  years  to  come,  if  I  live  so  long,  I 
shall  see  as  clear  and  also  as  unreal  as  a  painting — that 
level  sea-line,  along  which  moved  the  small  white  silent 
ships,  and  steamers,  with  their  humming  paddle-wheels  and 
their  trailing  thread  of  smoke,  dropping  one  after  the  other 
into  what  some  one  of  your  favorite  poets,  my  child,  calls 
"  the  under  world."  There  seemed  a  great  weight  on  my 
head — a  weariness  all  over  me.  I  did  not  feel  any  thmg 
much,  after  the  first  half  hour;  except  a  longing  to  see 
your  little  face  once  again,  and  then,  if  it  were  God's  will, 
to  lie  down  and  die,  somewhere  near  you,  quietly,  giving 
no  trouble  to  you  or  to  any  one  any  more.  You  will  re- 
member, I  w^as  not  in  my  usual  health,  and  had  had  extra 
hard  work,  for  some  little  time. 

Well,  my  dear  one,  this  is  enough  about  myself,  that  day. 
I  went  home  and  fell  into  harness  as  usual ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done  but  to  wait  till  the  storm  burst,  and  I  wish- 
ed for  many  reasons  to  retain  my  situation  at  the  jail  as 
long  as  possible. 

But  it  was  a  difficult  time :  rising  to  each  day's  duty, 
Avith  total  uncertainty  of  what  might  happen  before  night ; 
and,  duty  done,  struggling  against  a  depression  such  as  I 
have  not  known  for  these  many  years,  lb  the  midst  of  it^ 
came  your  dear  letters — cheerful,  loving,  contented — un- 
wontedly  contented  they  seemed  to  be.  I  could  not  an- 
swer them,  for  to  have  written  in  a  false  strain  was  impos- 
sible, and  to  teU  you  every  thing' seemed  equally  so.  I  said 
to  myself,  "  No,  poor  child !  she  will  learn  all  soon  enough. 
Let  her  be  happy  while  she  can." 

I  was  wrong ;  I  was  unjust  to  you  and  to  myself.  From 
the  hour  you  gave  me  your  love,  I  owed  it  to  us  both  to 
give  you  my  full  confidence,  as  much  as  if  you  were  my 
wife.  I  had  no  right  to  wound  your  dear  heart  by  keeping 
back  from  it  any  sorrows  of  mine.  Forgive  me,  and  for- 
give something  else,  which  I  now  see  was  cruder  still. 
Theodora,  I  wished  many  times  that  you  were  free ;  that  I 
had  never  bound  you  to  my  hard  lot,  but  kept  silence  and 
left  you  to  forget  me — to  love  some  one  else  better  than 
me — pardon,  pardon ! 

For  I  was  once  actually  on  the  point  of  writing  to  you, 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  365 

saying  tMs,  when  I  remembered  something  you  had  said 
long  ago — ^that  whether  or  no  we  were  ever  married  yon 
were  glad  we  had  been  betrothed — that  so  far  we  mfght 
always  be  a  help  and  comfort  to  one  another.  For,  you 
added,  when  I  was  blaming  myself,  and  talking  as  men  do 
of  "  honor"  and  "  pride" — to  have  left  you  free  when  you 
were  not  free,  would  have  given  you  all  the  cares  of  love, 
Avith  neither  its  rights,  nor  duties,  nor  sweetnesses ;  and 
this  might — you  did  not  say  it  would — but  it  might  have 
broken  your  heart. 

So  in  my  bitter  strait  I  trusted  that  pure  heart,  whose 
instinct,  I  felt,  was  truer  than  all  my  wisdom.  I  did  not 
write  the  letter,  .but  at  the  same  time,  as  I  have  told  you, 
it  was  impossible  to  write  any  other,  even  a  smgle  line. 

Your  last  letter  came.  Happily,  it  reached  me  the  very 
morning  when  the  crisis  which  I  had  been  for  weeks  ex- 
pecting occurred.  I  had  it  m  my  pocket  all  the  time  I 
stood  in  that  room  before  those  men.  But  I  had  best  re- 
late from  the  beginning. 

You  are  aAvare  that  any  complamts  respecting  the  of- 
ficers of  this  jail,  or  questions  concerning  its  internal  man- 
agement, are  laid  before  the  visiting  justices.  Thus,  aft- 
er the  governor's  hint,  on  every  board-day  I  prepared  my- 
self for  _a  summons.  At  length  it  came,  ostensibly  for  a 
very  trivial  matter — some  relaxation  of  discipline  which  I 
had  ordered  and  been  counteracted  in.  But  my  conduct 
had  never  been  called  into  question  before,  and  I  knew  what 
it  implied.  The  very  form  of  it — "  The  governor's,  comj^li- 
ments,  and  he  requests  Doctor  XJrquhart's  attendance  in 
the  board-room,"  instead  of  "  Doctor,  come  up  to  my  room 
and  talk  the  matter  over" — was  sufficient  indication  of 
what  was  impending. 

I  found  present,  besides  the  governor  and  chaplain,  an  un- 
usual number  of  magistrates.  These,  who  are  not  always 
or  necessarily  gentlemen,  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had  been 
some  strange  beast,  all  the  time  I  was  giving  my  brief  evi- 
dence about  the  breach  of  regulations  complained  of.  It 
was  soon  settled,  for  I  had  been  careful  to  keep  withm  the 
letter  of  the  law,  and  I  made  a  motion  to  take  leave,  when 
one  of  the  justices  requested  me  to  "  wait  a  bit — they  hadn't 
done  with  me  yet." 

These  sort  of  men,  low-born — not  that  that  is  any  dis- 
grace, but  a  glory,  unless  accompanied  with  a  low  nature 
— and  "  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority,"  one  often  meets 


366  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

with  here ;  I  was  well  used  to  deal  with  them,  and  to  their 
dealings  with  the  like  of  me — a  poor  professional,  whose 
annual  income  was  little  more  than  they  would  expend  care- 
lessly upon  one  of  their  splendid  "feeds."  But,  until  late- 
ly, among  my  co-mates  in  office,  I  had  been  both  friendly 
and  popular.  Now  they  took  their  tone  from  the  rest,  and 
even  the  governor  and  the  chaplain  preserved  toward  me 
a  rigid  silence.  You  do  not  know  our  old  mess-phrase  of 
being  "  sent  to  Coventry."  If  you  did  you  would  under- 
stand how  those  ten  minutes  that,  according  to  my  orders, 
I  sat  aloof  from  the  board  while  other  business  was  pro- 
ceeding were  not  the  pleasantest  possible." 

Men  among  men  grow  hard,  are  Hable4o  evil  passions, 
fits  of  pride,  hatred,  and  revenge,  that  are  probably  unfa- 
miliar to  you  sweet  women.  It  was  well  I  had  your  letter 
in  my  pocket.  Besides,  there  is  something  in  coming  to 
the  crisis  of  a  great  misfortune,  which  braces  up  a  man's 
nerves  to  meet  it.  So  when  the  governor,  turning  round 
in  his  always  courteous  tone,  said  the  board  requested  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  with  me,  I  could  rise  and  stand 
steady  to  meet  whatever  shaj)e  of  hard  fortune  was  before 
me. 

The  governor,  like  most  men  of  non-intrusive  but  iron 
will,  who  have  both  temper  and  feelings  perfectly  under 
control,  has  a  very  strong  influence  wherever  he  goes.  It 
was  he  who  opened  and  carried  on  with  me  what  he  polite- 
ly termed^a  "  little  conversation." 

"  These  difficulties,"  continued  he,  after  referring  to  the 
dismissed  complaint  of  my  straining  the  rules  of  the  jail  to 
their  utmost  limit,  from  my  "  sympathy  with  criminals," 
"  these  unpleasantnesses.  Doctor  Urquhart,  will,  I  fear,  be 
always  occurring.  Have  you  reconsidered  the  hint  I  gave 
to  you  some  little  time  ago  ?" 

I  answered  that  it  was  rarely  my  habit  to  take  hints ;  I 
preferred  having  all  things  spoken  right  out. 

"  Such  candor  is  creditable,  though  not  always  possible 
or  advisable.  I  should  have  been  exceedingly  glad  if  you 
had  saved  me  from  what  I  feel  to  be  my  duty,  however 
painful — namely,  to  repeat  my  ]3rivate  suggestion  pubhcly." 

"  You  mean  that  I  should  tender  my  resignation  ?" 

"  Excuse  my  saying — and  the  board  agrees  with  me — 
that  such  a  step  seems  desirable,  for  many  reasons." 

I  waited,  and  then  asked  for  those  reasons. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart  must  surely  be  aware  of  them." 


A  LIFE   FOE   A   LIFE.  367 

A  man  is  not  bound  to  rusli  madly  into  his  ruin.  I  de- 
termined to  die  fighting,  at  any  rate.  I  said,  addressing 
the  board, 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  aware  of  having  conducted  my- 
self in  any  manner  that  unfits  me  for  being  surgeon  to  this 
jail.  Any  slight  difierences  between  the  governor  and  my- 
self are  mere  matters  of  opinion,  which  signify  little  so  long 
as  neither  trenches  on  the  other's  authority,  and  both  are 
amenable  to  the  regulations  of  the  establishment.  If  you 
have  any  cause  of  complaint  against  me,  state  it,  reprove 
or  dismiss  me — it  is  your  right;  but  no  one  has  a  right, 
ivithout  just  grounds,  to  request  me  to  resign." 

The  governor,  even  through  that  handsome,  impassive, 
masked  countenance  of  his,  looked  annoyed.  For  an  in- 
stant his  hard  manner  dropped  into  the  old  friendhness, 
even  as  when,  in  the  first  few  weeks  after  his  wife's  death, 
he  and  I  used  to  sit  playing  chess  together  of  evenings, 
with  little  Lucy  between  us. 

"  Doctor,  why  will  you  misapprehend  me  ?  It  is  for  your 
own  sake  that  I  wish,  before  the  matter  is  opened  up  far- 
ther, you  should  resign  your  post." 

After  a  moment's  consideration,  I  requested  him  to  ex- 
plain himself  more  clearly. 

One  of  the  magistrates  here  cried  out  with  a  laugh : 
"  Come,  come,  Doctor,  no  shamming.  You  are  the  town's 
talk."  And  another  suggested  that  "Brown  had  better 
mind  his  P's  and  Q's;  there  were  such  things  as  actions 
for  libel." 

I  replied  if  the  gentlemen  referred  to  the  scurrilous  alle- 
gations against  me  which  had  appeared  in  print,  they  might 
speak  without  fear ;  I  had  no  intention  of  prosecuting  for 
libel.  This  silenced  them  a  moment,  and  then  the  first 
magistrate  said, 

"  Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  hang  him ;  but  surely.  Doc- 
tor, you  can't  be  aware  what  a  very  bad  name  you  have 
somehow  got  in  these  parts,  or  you  would  have  been  more 
eager  to  draw  your  neck  out  of  the  halter  in  time.  Why, 
bless  my  soul,  man  alive,  do  you  know  what  folk  Inake  you 
out  to  be  ?" 

"This  discussion  is  growing  foreign  to  the  matter  in 
hand,"  interrupted  the  governor,  w^ho  I  felt  had  never  tak- 
en his  sharp  eyes  oflT  me.  "  Tlie  question  is  merely  this : 
that  any  ofiicer  in  authority  among  criminals  must  of  neces- 
sity bear  an  unblemished  character.     E^either  in  the  estab- 


368  A  LIFE   FOR  A   LIFE. 

lishment  nor  out  of  it  ought  people  to  be  able  to  say  of 
him  that— that— " 

"  Say  it  out,  sir." 

"That  there  were  circumstances  in  his  former  life  T^hich 
would  not  bear  inspection,  and  that  merely  accident  drew 
the  line  between  himself  and  the  convicts  he  was  bent  on 
reforming." 

"  Hear,  hear !"  said  a  justicBy  who  had  lang  thwarted  me 
in  my  schemes  ;  having  a  conscientious  objection  to  reform- 
ing every  body — including  himself. 

"Nay,"  said  the  governor.  '•'^I  did  not  give  this  as  a 
fact — only  a  report.  These  reports  hdve  come  to  such  a 
height,  that  they  must  either  be  proved  or  denied.  And 
therefore  I  wished,  before  any  public  inquiry  became  nec- 
essary— unless,  indeed.  Doctor  Urquhart  will  consent  to 
the  explanatory  self-defense  which  he  definitely  refused 
Mr.  Thorley— " 

And  they  both  looked  anxiously  at  me — ^these  two  whom 
I  have  always  found  honest,  honorable  men,  and  who  were 
once  my  friends,  or  at  least  friendly  associates — the  chap- 
lain and  the  governor. 

Theodora,  no  one  need  ever  dread  lest  the  doctrine  of 
total  forgiveness  should  make  guilt  no  burden,  and  repent- 
ance pleasant  and  easy.  There  are  some  consequences  of 
sin  which  must  haunt  a  sinner  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

It  might  have  been  one  minute  or  ten  that  I  stood  mo- 
tionless, feeling  as  if  I  could  have  given  up  life  and  all  its 
blessings  without  a  pang  to  be  able  to  face  those  men  with 
a  clear  conscience,  and  say,  "  It  is  all  a  lie ;  I  am  innocent." 

Then,  for  my  salvation,  came  the  thought — ^it  seemed 
spoken  into  my  ear,  the  voice  half  like  Dallas's  half  like 
yours — "If  God  hath  forgiven  thee,  why  be  afi-aid  of 
men  ?"  And  I  said,  humbly  enough — yet,  I  trust,  without 
any  cringing  or  abjectness  of  fear — that  I  wished,  before 
taking  any  farther  step,  to  hear  the  whole  of  the  state- 
ments current  against  myself,  and  how  far  they  were 
credited  by  the  gentlemen  before  me. 

The  accusation,  I  was  infonned,  stood  thus:  floating 
rumors  having  accumulated  into  a  substantive  form — ^terri- 
bly near  the  truth !  that  I  had  in  my  youth,  either  here 
or  abroad,  committed  some  crime  which  rendered  me 
amenable  to  the  laws  of  my  country ;  and  though,  by  some 
trick  of  law,  I  had  escaped  justice,  the  ban  upon  me  was 
such,  that  only  by  the  wandering  life  which  I  myself  had 


A   LIFE   FOR    A   LIFE.  369 

owned  to  having  led,  could  I  escape  the  fury  of  public 
opinion.  The  impression  against  me  was  now  so  strong,  in 
the  jail  and  out  of  it,  that  the  governor  would  not  engage 
even  by  his  own  authority  to  preserve  mine  unless  I  fur- 
nished him  with  an  immediate,  explicit  denial  to  this 
charge.  Which,  he  was  j)leased  to  say,  if  it  had  not  been 
so  widely  spread,  so  mysterious  in  its  origin,  and  so  oddly 
corroborated  by  accidental  admissions  on  my  part,  he 
should  have  treated  as  simply  ridiculous. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  apparently  reassured  by  the 
com230sure  Avith  which  I  had  listened,  "  I  have  only  to  ask 
you  to  deny  it,  point-blank,  before  the  board  and  myself." 

I  asked,  what  must  I  deny  ? 

"  Yv^hy,  if  the  accusations  were  not  too  ludicrous  to  ex- 
press, just  state  that  you  are  neither  forger,  burglar,  nor 
body-snatcher ;  that  you  never  either  killed  a  man  (unpro- 
fessionally,  of  course,  if  we  may  be  excused  the  joke)  for 
professional  purposes,  or  shot  him  irregularly  in  a  duel,  or 
waylaid  him  with  pistols  behind  a  hedge." 

"  Am  I  supposed  to  have  committed  all  these  crimes  ?" 

"  Such  is  the  gullibility  of  the  public ;  you  really  are," 
said  the  governor,  smiling. 

On  the  indignant  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  denied  them 
each  and  all,  upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman ;  until,  feehng 
the  old  chaplain  cordially  grip  my  hand,  I  was  roused  into 
a  full  consciousness  of  where  and  what  I  was,  and  what, 
either  by  word  or  imphcation,  I  had  been  asserting. 

Somebody  said,  "  Give  him  air ;  no  wonder  he  feels  it, 
poor  fellow !"  And  so,  after  a  little,  I  gathered  up  my 
faculties,  and  saw  the  board  sitting  waiting ;  and  the  gov- 
ernor with  pen  and  ink  before  him. 

"This  jDainful  business  w^ill  soon  be  settled.  Doctor," 
said  he,  cheerfully.  "Just  answer  a  question  or  two, 
which,  as  a  matter  of  form,  I  will  put  in  writing,  and  then, 
if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  dine  w^ith  me  to-day,  we  can 
consult  how  best  to  make  the  statement  public;  without 
of  course  compromising  your  dignity.  To  begin.  You 
hereby  make  declaration  that  you  never  were  in  jail  ?  nev- 
er tried  at  any  assizes  ?  have  never  committed  any  act 
which  rendered  you  liable  to  prosecution  under  our  crim- 
inal law  ?" 

He  ran  the  words  off  carelessly,  and  paused  for  my  an- 
swer. When  none  came,  he  looked  up,  his  own  penetra- 
tive, suspicious  look. 

Q2 


370  A   LIFE   POR    A   LIFE. 

"  Perhaps  I  did  not  express  myself  clearly."  And  he 
slightly  changed  the  form  of  the  sentence.  "  Now,  what 
shall  I  write,TDoctor  Urquhart  ?" 

If  I  could  then  and  there  have  made  full  confession,  and 
gone  out  of  that  room  an  arrested  prisoner,  it  would  have 
been,  so  far  as  regarded  myself,  a  relief  unutterable,  a  mer- 
cy beyond  all  mercies.    But  I  had  to  remember  your  father. 

The  governor  laid  down  his  pen. 

"  This  looks,  to  say  the  least,  rather  strange." 

"  Doctor,"  cried  one  of  the  board,  "  you  must  be  mad  to 
hold  your  tongue  and  let  your  character  go  to  the  dogs  in 
this  way." 

Alas !  I  was  not  mad ;  I  saw  all  that  was  vanishing  from 
me — inevitably,  irredeemably — my  good  name,  my  chance 
of  earning  a  livelihood,  my  sweet  hope  of  a  home  and  a 
wife.  And  I  might  save  every  thing,  and  keep  my  promise 
to  your  father  also,  by  just  one  little  lie. 

Would  you  have  had  me  utter  it  ?  No,  love ;  I  know 
you  Avould  rather  have  had  me  die. 

The  sensation  was  like  dying,  for  one  minute,  and  then 
it  passed  away.  I  looked  steadily  at  my  accusers ;  for  ac- 
cusation, at  all  events  strong  suspicion,  was  in  every  coun- 
tenance now ;  and  told  them  that  though  I  had  not  perpe- 
trated a  single  one  of  the  atrocious  crimes  laid  to  my 
charge,  still  the  events  of  my  life  had  been  peculiar ;  and 
circumstances  left  me  no  option  but  the  course  I  had 
hitherto  pursued,  namely,  total  silence.  That  if  my  good 
character  were  strong  enough  to  sustain  me  through  it,  I 
would  willingly  retain  my  post  at  the  jail,  and  weather  the 
storm  as  I  best  could.     If  this  course  were  impossible — 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  the  governor,  decisively. 

"  Then  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  tender  my  resigna- 
tion." 

It  was  accepted  at  once. 

I  went  out  from  the  board-room  a  disgraced  man,  with  a 
stain  upon  my  character  w^hich  will  last  for  life,  and  follow 
me  wherever  I  plant  my  foot.  The  honest  Urquhart  name, 
which  my  father  bore,  and  Dallas — which  I  ought  to  have 
given  stainless  to  my  wife,  and  left — if  I  could  leave  noth- 
ing else — to  my  children — ay,  it  was  gone.  Gone,  forever 
and  ever. 

I  stole  up  into  my  own  rooms,  and  laid  myself  down  on 
my  bed,  as  motionless  as  if  it  had  been  my  coffin. 

Fear  not,  my  love ;  one  sm  was  saved  me,  perhaps  by 


A   LITE   FOE   A   LITE.  371 

your  letter  of  that  morning.  The  wretchedest,  most  hope- 
less, most  guilty  of  men  would  never  dare  to  pray  for  death 
so  long  as  he  laiew  that  a  good  woman  loved  liim. 

When  daylight  failed  I  bestu-red  myself,  lit  my  lamjD, 
and  began  to  make  a  few  preparations  and  arrangements 
about  my  rooms — it  being  clear  that^  wherever  I  went,  I 
must  quit  this  place  as  soon  as  possible. 

My  mind  was  almost  made  up  as  to  the  course  I  ought 
to  pursue ;  and  that  of  itself  calmed  me.  I  was  soon  able 
to  sit  down,  and  begin  this  letter  to  you  >  but  got  no  far- 
ther than  the  first  three  words,  which,  often  as  I  have  writ- 
ten them,  look  as  new,  strange,  and  precious  as  ever :  '■'-My 
dear  Theodora^  Dear — God  knows  how  infinitely!  and 
mine — altogether  and  everlastingly  mine.  I  felt  this,  even 
now-  In  the  resolution  I  had  made,  no  doubts  shook  me 
with  respect  to  you ;  for  you  would  bid  me  to  do  exactly 
what  conscience  urged — ay,  even  if  you  differed  from  me. 
You  said  'once,  with  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  your 
sweet  eyes  looking  up  steadfastly  in  mine :  "  Max,  what- 
ever happens,  always  do  what  you  think  to  be  right,  with- 
out reference  to  me.  I  would  love  you  all  the  better  for 
doing  it,  even  if  you  broke  my  heart." 

I  was  pondering  thus,  planning  how  best  to  tell  you  of 
things  so  sore ;  when  there  came  a  knock  to  my  room  door. 
Expecting  no  one  but  a  servant,  I  said  "  Come  in,"  and  did 
not  even  look  up — for  every  creature  in  the  jail  must  be  fa- 
miliar with  my  disgrace  by  this  time. 

"  Doctor  Urquhart,  do  I  intrude  ?" 

It  was  the  chaplain. 

Theodora,  if  I  have  ever  in  my  letters  implied  a  word 
against  him — for  the  narrowness  and  formality  of  his  re- 
ligious belief  sometimes  annoyed  and  was  a  hinderance  to 
me — remember  it  not.  Set  down  his  name,  the  Reverend 
James  Thorley,  on  the  Hst  of  those  I  wish  to  be  kept  al- 
ways in  your  tender  memory,  as  those  whom  I  sincerely 
honored,  and  who  have  been  most  kind  to  me  of  all  my 
friends.  ^ 

The  old  man  spoke  with  great  hesitation,  and  when  I 
thanked  him  for  coming,  replied  in  the  manner  which  I  had 
many  a  time  heard  him  use  in  convict  cells : 

"  I  came,  sir,  because  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty." 

"  Mr.  Thorley,  whatever  was  your  motive,  I  respect  it, 
and  thank  you." 

And  we  remained  silent — both  standinsf — for  he  declined 


372  A   LIFE    FOR    A   LIFE. 

my  offer  of  a  chair.  ISToticing  my  prej)arations,  he  said, 
with  some  agitation,  "  Am  I  hindering  yom-  plans  for  de- 
partm*e  ?     Are  you  afraid  of  the  law  ?" 

"No." 

He  seemed  relieved ;  then,  after  a  long  examining  look 
at  me,  quite  broke  down. 

"  O  Doctor,  Doctor,  what  a  terrible  thing  this  is  1  who 
would  have  believed  it  of  you !" 

It  was  very  bitter,  Theodora. 

When  he  saw^that  I  attempted  neither  answer  nor  de- 
fense, the  chaplain  continued  sternly :  "I  come  here,  sir, 
not  to  pry  into  your  secrets,  but  to  fulfill  my  duty  as  a  min- 
ister of  God ;  to  urge  you  to  make  confession,  not  unto  me, 
but  unto  Him  whom  you  have  offended,  whose  eye  you  can 
not  escape,  and  whose  justice  sooner  or  later  will  bring  you 
to  punishment.  But  perhaps,"  seeing  I  bore  with  compos- 
ure these  and  many  similar  arguments ;  alas,  they  were 
only  too  familiar !  "  perhaps  I  am  laboring  under  a  strange 
mistake?  You  do  not  look  guilty,  and  I  could  as  soon 
have  believed  in  my  own  son's  being  a  criminal,  as  you. 
For  God's  sake  break  this  reserve,  and  tell  me  all." 

"  It  is  not  possible." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  the  old  man  said,  sigh- 
ing: 

"  Well,  I  will  urge  no  more.  Your  sin,  whatever  it  be, 
rests  between  you  and  the  Judge  of  sinners.  You  say  the 
law  has  no  hold  OA^er  you  ?" 

"  I  said  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  law." 

"  Therefore  it  must  have  been  a  moral  rather  than  a  le- 
gal crime,  if  crime  it  was."  And  again  I  had  to  bear  that 
searching  look,  so  dreadful  because  it  was  so  eager  and 
kind.  "  On  my  soul.  Doctor  Urquhart,  I  believe  you  to  be 
entirely  innocent." 

"  Sir,"  I  cried  out,  and  stopped ;  then  asked  him  "  if  he 
did  not  believe  it  possible  for  a  man  to  have  sinned  and  yet 
repented  ?" 

Mr.  Thorley  started  back — so  greatly  shocked  that  I  per- 
ceived at  once  what  an  implication  I  had  made.  But  it 
was  too  late  now ;  nor,  perhaps,  would  I  have  had  it  other- 
wise. 

"  As  a  clergyman — ^I — I — "  He  paused.  "  '•If  a  man 
sin  a  sin  ichich  is  not  unto  death — '  You  know  the  rest. 
'■And  there  is  a  sin  which  is  unto  death  ;  J  do  not  say 
that  he  shall  pray  for  it."*  But  never  tliat  we  shall  not 
pray  for  it." 


A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE.  373' 

And  falling  down  on  his  knees  beside  me,  the  old  chap- 
lain repeated  in  a.  broken  voice : 

•'  '•  Remeimber  not  the  sins  of  my  youth  nor  ony  trans- 
gressions y  according  to  thy  mercy ^  think  thou  tipon  me^  O 
Lord^for  thy  goodness^  Kot  ours,  which  is  but  filthy 
rags ;  for  Thy  goodness,  through  Jesus  Christ,  O  Lord." 

"  Amen." 

Mr.  Thorley  rose,  took  the  chair  I  gave  him,  and  we  sat 
silent.  Presently  he  asked  me  if  I  had  any  plans  ?  Had  I 
considered  what  exceeding  difiiculty  I  should  find  in  estab- 
lishing myself  any  where  professionally,  after  what  hap- 
pened this  day  ? 

I  said  I  was  fully  aware  that  so  far  as  my  future  pros- 
pects were  concerned,  I  was  a  ruined  man. 

"  And  yet  you  take  it  so  calmly  ?" 

"Ay." 

"  Doctor,"  said  he,  after  again  Avatching  me,  "  you  must 
either  be  innocent,  or  your  error  must  have  been  caused  by 
strong  temptation,  and  long  ago  retrieved.  I  will  never 
believe  but  that  you  are  now  as  honorable  and  worthy  a 
man  as  any  Kving." 

"Thank  you." 

An  uncontrollable  weakness  came  over  me ;  Mr.  Thorley, 
too,  was  much  afiected. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  as  he 
wrung  my  hand,  "  you  must  start  afresh  in  some  other  part 
of  the  world.  You  are  no  older  than  my  son-in-law  was 
when  he  married  and  went  to  Canada,  in  your  own  profes- 
sion too.     By  the  way,  I  have  an  idea." 

The  idea  was  worthy  of  this  excellent  man,  and  of  his 
behavior  to  me.  He  explained  that  his  son-inJaw,  a  phy- 
sician in  good  practice,  wanted  a  partner — some  one  from 
the  Old  Country,  if  possible. 

"  If  you  went  out,  with  an  introduction  from  me,  he 
would  be  sure  to  like  you,  and  all  might  be  settled  in  no  time. 
Besides,  you  Scotch  hang  together  so — my  son-in-law  is  a 
Fife  man — and  did  you  not  say  you  were  born  or  educated 
at  St.  Andrews  ?     The  very  thing !" 

And  he  lu'ged  me  to  start  by  next  Saturday's  American 
mail. 

A  sharp  struggle  went  on  within  my  mind.  Mr.  Thorley 
evidently  thought  it  sprang  from  another  cause,  and,  with 
much  delicacy,  gave  me  to  understand  that  in  the  promised 
introduction,  he  did  not  consider  there  was  the  slightest 


374  A   LIFE    FOR   A   LIFE. 

necessity  to  state  more  than  that  I  had  been  an  army  sm-- 
geon,  and  was  his  vahied  friend;  that  no  reports  against 
me  were  likely  to  reach  the  far  Canadian  settlement,  whith- 
er I  shonld  carry,  both  to  his  son-in-law  and  the  world  at 
large,  a  perfectly  unknown  and  unblemished  name. 

If  I  had  ever  wavered,,  this  decided  me.  The  hope  must 
go.     So  I  let  it  go,  in  all  probability,  forever. 

Was  I  right  ?     I  can  hear  you  say,  "  Yes,  Max." 

In  bidding  the  chaplain  farewell,  I  tried  to  explain  to  him 
that  in  this  generous  offer  he  had  given  to  me  more  than 
he  guessed — faith  not  only  in  heaven,  but  in  mankind,  and 
strength  to  do  without  shrinking  what  I  am  bound  to  do — 
trusting  that  there  are  other  good  Christians  in  this  world 
besides  himself  who  dare  believe  that  a  man  may  sin  and 
yet  repent — ^that  the  stigma  even  of  an  absolute  crime  is 
not  hopeless  nor  eternal. 

His  own  opinion  concerning  my  present  conduct,  or  the 
facts  of  my  past  history,  I  di<^  not  seek ;  it  was  of  little 
moment ;  he  will  shortly  learn  all. 

My  love,  I  have  resolved,  as  the  only  thing  possible  to 
my  future  peace,  the  one  thing  exacted  by  the  laws  of  God 
and  man — to  do  what  I  ought  to  have  done  twenty  years 
ago — to  deliver  myself  up  to  justice. 

Now  I  have  told  you ;  but  I  can  not  tell  you  the  infinite 
calm  which  this  resolution  has  brought  to  me.  To  be  free ; 
to  lay  down  this  living  load  of  lies,  which  has  hung  about 
me  for  twenty  years  ;  to  speak  the  whole  truth  before  God 
and  man — confess  all,  and  take  my  punishment — my  love, 
my  love,  if  you  knew  what  the  thought  of  this  is  to  me,  you 
would  neither  tremble  nor  weep,  but  rather  rejoice ! 

My  Theodora,  I  take  you  in  my  arms,  I  hold  you  to  my 
heart,  and  love  you  ivith  a  love  that  is  dearer  than  life  and 
stronger  than  death,  and  I  ask  you  to  let  me  do  this. 

In  the  inclosed  letter  to  your  father,  I  have,  after  relating 
all  the  circumstances  of  which  I  here  inform  you,  implored 
him  to^  release  me  from  a  pledge  which  I  ought  never  to 
have  given.  N'ever,  for  it  was  putting  the  fear  of  man  be- 
fore the  fear  of  God ;  it  was  binding  myself  to  an  eternal 
hypocrisy,  an  inward  gnawing  of  shame,  which  paralyzed 
my  very  soul.  I  must  escape  it ;  you  must  try  to  release 
me  from  it — my  love,  who  loves  me  better  than  herself,  bet- 
ter than  myself,  I  mean  this  poor  worthless  self,  battered 
and  old,  which  I  have  often  thought  was  more  fit  to  go 
down  into  the  grave  than  live  to  be  my  dear  girl's  husband. 


A   LIFE   FOK  A  LIFE.  375 

Forgive  me  if  I  wound  you.  By  the  intolerable  agony  of 
this  hour,  I  feel  that  the  sacrifice  is  just  and  right. 

You  must  help  me,  you  must  urge  your  father  to  set  me 
free.  Tell  hmi — indeed  I  have  told  him — that  he  need 
dread  no  disgrace  to  the  family,  or  to  him  who  is  no  more. 
I  shall  state  nothing  of  Henry  Johnston  excepting  his  name, 
and  my  own  confession  will  be  sufficient  and  sole  evidence 
agamst  me. 

As  to  the  possible  result  of  my  trial,  I  have  not  overlook- 
ed it.  It  was  just,  if  only  for  my  dear  love's  sake,  that  I 
should  gain  some  idea  of  the  chances  against  me.  Little  as 
I  understand  of  the  law,  and  especially  English  law,  it  seems 
to  me  very  unlikely  that  the  verdict  will  be  willful  murder, 
nor  shall  I  plead  guilty  to  that.  God  and  my  own  con- 
science are  witnesses  that  I  did  not  commit  murder,  but  un- 
premeditated manslaughter. 

The  punishment  for  this  is,  I  believe,  sometimes  trans- 
portation, sometimes  imprisonment  for  a  long  term  of  years. 
If  it  were  death — which  perhaps  it  might  as  well  be  to  a 
man  of  my  age — I  must  face  it.  The  remainder  of  my  days, 
be  they  few  or  many,  must  be  spent  in  peace. 

K I  do  not  hear  within  two  days'  post  from  Bockmount, 
I  shall  conclude  your  father  makes  no  opposition  to  my 
determination,  and  go  at  once  to  surrender  myself  at  Salis- 
bury. YoiL  need  not  write ;  it  might  compromise  you ;  it 
would  be  almost  a  relief  to  me  to  hear  nothing  of  or  from 
you  until  all  was  over. 

And  now,  farewell !  My  personal  effects  here  I  leave  in 
charge  of  the  chaplain,  with  a  sealed  envelope,  containing 
the  name  and  address  of  the  friend  to  whom  they  are  to  be 
sent  in  case  of  my  death,  or  any  other  emergency.  This  is 
yourself.  In  my  will  I  have  given  you,  as  near  as  the  law 
allows,  every  right  that  you  would  have  had  as  my  wife. 

My  wife — my  wife  in  the  sight  of  God,  farewell ! — that 
is,  until  such  time  as  I  dare  write  again.  Take  good  care 
of  yourself;  be  patient,  and  have  hope.  In  whatever  he 
commands — he  is  too  just  a  man  to  command  an  injustice 
— obey  your  father. 

Forget  me  not — ^but  you  never  will.  If  I  could  have  seen 
you  once  more,  have  felt  you  close  to  my  heart — perhaps 
it  is  better  as  it  is. 

Only  a  week's  suspense  for  you,  and  it  will  be  over.  Let 
us  trust  in  God ;  and  farewell !  Remember  how  I  loved 
you,  my  child !  Max  Urquhart. 


376  A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE^ 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

HIS  STORY. 

My  dear  Theodora, — By  this  time  you  will  liave  known 
all.  Thank  God,  it  is  over.  My  dear,  dear  love — my  own 
faithful  girl — it  is  over  ! 

When  I  was  brought  back  to  prison  to-night,  I  found 
your  letters  ;  but  I  had  heard  of  you  the  day  before  from 
Colin  Granton.  Do  not  regret  the  chance  which  made  Mr. 
Johnston  detain  my  letter  to  you,  instead  of  forwarding  it 
at  once  to  the  Cedars.  These  sort  of  things  never  seem  to 
me  as  accidental;  all  was  for  good.  In  any  case  I  could 
not  have  done  otherwise  than  I  did ;  but  it  would  have 
been  painful  to  have  done  it  in  direct  opposition  to  your 
father.  The  only  thing  I  regret  is,  that  my  poor  child 
should  have  had  the  shock  of  first  seeing  these  hard  tidings 
of  my  surrender  to  the  magistrate,  and  my  public  confes- 
sion, in  a  newspaper. 

Granton  told  me  how  you  bore  it.  Tell  him  I  shall  re- 
member gratefully  all  my  life  his  goodness  to  you,  and  his 
leaving  his  young  wife — whom  he  dearly  loves,  I  can  see 
— ^to  come  to  me  here.  ISTor  was  he  my  only  friend ;  do 
not  think  I  was  either  contemned  or  forsaken.  Sir  Wil- 
liam Treherne  and  several  others  offered  any  amount  of 
bail  for  me ;  but  it  was  better  I  should  remain  in  prison 
during  the  few  days  between  my  committal  and  the  assizes. 
I  needed  quiet  and  solitude. 

Therefore,  my  love,  I  dared  not  have  seen  you,  even  had 
you  immediately  come  to  me.  You  have  acted  in  all  things 
as  my  dear  girl  was  sure  to  act — wise,  thoughtful,  self-con- 
trolled, and  oh !  how  infinitely  loving. 

I  had  to  stop  here  for  want  of  daylight ;  but  they  have 
now  bi^ought  me  my  allowance  of  candle — slender  enough, 
so  I  must  make  haste.  I  wish  you  to  have  this  full  ac- 
count as  soon  as  possible  after  the  brief  telegram  which  1 
know  Mr.  Granton  sent  you  the  instant  my  trial  was  over. 
A  trial,  however,  it  was  not ;  in  my  ignorance  of  law,  I  im- 
agined much  that  never  happened.  What  did  happen  I 
will  here  set  down. 

You  must  not  expect  me  to  give  many  details ;  my  head 


A  LIFE   POR   A   LIPE.  377 

was  rather  confused,  and  my  health  has  been  a  good  deal 
shaken,  though  do  not  take  heed  of  any  thing  Granton  may 
tell  you  about  me  or  my  looks.     I  shall  recover  no^v. 

Fortunately,  the  four  days  of  imprisonment  gaA'e  me 
time  to  recover  myself  in  a  measure,  and  I  was  able  to 
write  out  the  statement  I  meant  to  read  at  my  trial.  I 
preferred  reading  it,  lest  any  physical  weakness  might 
make  me  confused  or  inaccurate.  You  see  I  took  all  ra- 
tional precautions  for  my  own  safety.  I  was  as  just  to 
myself  as  I  would  have  been  to  another  man.  This  for 
your  sake,  and  also  for  the  sake  of  those  now  dead,  upon 
whose  fair  name  I  have  brought  the  first  blot. 

But  I  must  not  think  of  that — it  is  too  late.  What  best 
becomes  me  is  humility,  and  gratitude  to  God  and  man. 
Had  I  known  in  my  wretched  youth,  when,  absorbed  in 
terror  of  human  justice,  I  forgot  justice  divine — had  I  but 
known  there  were  so  many  merciful  hearts  in  this  world ! 

After  Colin  Granton  left  me  last  night  I  slept  quietly,  for 
I  felt  quiet  and  at  rest.  Oh,  the  peace  of  an  unburdened 
conscience,  the  freedom  of  a  soul  at  ease,  which,  the  whole 
truth  being  told,  has  no  longer  any  thing  to  dread,  and  is 
prepared  for  every  thing ! 

I  rose  calm  and  refreshed,  and  could  see  through  my 
cell  window  that  it  was  a  lovely  spring  morning.  I  was 
glad  my  Theodora  did  not  know  what  particular  day  of 
the  assizes  was  fixed  for  my  trial.  It  would  make  things 
a  little  easier  for  her. 

It  was  noon  before  the  case  came  on :  a  long  time  to 
wait. 

Do  not  suppose  me  braver  than  Twas.  When  I  found 
myself  standing  in  the  j)risoner's  dock,  the  whole  mass  of 
staring  faces  seemed  to  whirl  round  and  round  before  my 
eyes ;  I  felt  sick  and  cold ;  I  had  lost  more  strength  than  I 
thought.  Every  thing  present  melted  away  into  a  sort  of 
dream  through  which  I  fancied  I  heard  you  speaking,  but 
could  not  distinguish  any  words — except  these,  the  soft, 
still  tenderness  of  which  haunted  me  as  freshly  as  if  they 
had  been  only  just  uttered :  "  My  dear  Max !  my  dear 
Max!" 

By  this  I  perceived  that  my  mind  was  wandering,  and 
must  be  recalled ;  so  I  forced  myself  to  look  round  at  the 
judge,  jury,  witness-box,  in  the  which  was  one  person  sit- 
ting with  his  white  head  resting  on  his  hand.  I  felt  who 
it  was. 


378  A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

Did  you  know  your  father  was  subpoenaed  here  ?  If  so, 
what  a  day  this  must  have  been  for  my  poor  child !  Think 
not,  though,  that  the  sight  of  him  added  to  my  suffering. 
I  had  no  fear  of  him  or  of  any  thing  now.  Even  pubUc 
shame  Avas  less  terrible  than  I  thought ;  those  scores  of  in- 
quisitive eyes  hardly  stabbed  so  deep  as  in  days  past  did 
many  a  kind  look  of  your  father's,  many  a  loving  glance  of 
yours. 

The  formalities  of  the  court  began,  but  I  scarcely  listen- 
ed to  them.  They  seemed  to  me  of  little  consequence.  As 
I  said  to  Granton  when  he  urged  me  to  employ  counsel,  a 
man  who  only  wants  to  speak  the  truth  can  surely  manage 
to  do  it,  in  spite  of  the  encumbrances  of  the  law. 

It  came  to  an  end — the  long,  unintelligible  indictment — 
and  my  first  clear  perception  of  my  position  was  the  judge's 
question : 

"  How  say  you,  prisoner  at  the  bar,  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

I  pleaded  "  guilty,"  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  judge 
asked  several  questions,  and  held  a  long  discussion  with 
the  counsel  for  the  crown  on  what  he  termed  "  this  very 
remarkable  case."  The  purport  of  it  was,  I  believe,  to  as- 
certain my  sanity,  and  whether  any  corroboration  of  my 
confession  could  be  obtained.  It  could  not.  All  possible 
witnesses  were  long  since  dead,  except  your  father. 

He  still  kept  his  position,  neither  turning  toward  me  nor 
yet  from  me — ^neither  compassionate  nor  revengeful,  but 
sternly  composed,  as  if  his  long  sorrows  had  obtained  their 
solemn  satisfaction ;  and,  even  though  the  end  was  thus,  he 
felt  relieved  that  it  had  come.  As  if  he,  like  me,  had  learn- 
ed to  submit  that  our  course  should  be  shaped  for  us  rath- 
er than  by  us,  being  taught  that  even  in  this  world's  events 
the  God  of  Truth  will  be  justified  before  men — will  prove 
that  those  who,  under  any  pretense,  disguise  or  deny  the 
truth,  live  not  unto  Him,  but  unto  the  father  of  lies. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  then  and  there  I  should  have  been 
calm  enough  to  think  of  these  things  ?  Ay,  and  should 
calmly  write  of  them  now.  But,  as  I  have  told  you,  in  a 
great  crisis  my  mind  always  recovers  its  balance  and  be- 
comes quiet.  Besides,  sickness  makes  us  both  clear-sighted 
and  far  sighted — wonderfully  so,  sometimes. 

Do  not  suppose  from  this  admission  that  my  health  is 
gone  or  going,  but  simply  that  I  am,  as  I  see  in  the  look- 
ing-glass, a  somewhat  older  and  feebler  man  than  my  dear 
love  remembers  me  a  year  ago.     But  I  must  hasten  on. 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  379 

The  plea  of  guilty  being  recorded,  no  trial  was  necessa- 
ry; the  judge  had  only  to  pass  sentence.  I  was  asked 
Y/hether,  by  counsel  or  otherwise,  I  wished  to  say  any 
thmg  in  my  own  defense?  And  then  I  rose  and  told  the 
whole  truth. 

Do  not  grieve  for  me,  Theodora.  The  truth  is  never 
really  terrible.  What  makes  it  so  is  the  fear  of  man,  and 
that  was  over  with  me ;  the  torment  of  guilty  shame,  and 
that  was  gone  too.  I  have  had  many  a  moment  of  far 
sharper  anguish,  more  grinding  hmniliation  than  this,  when 
I  stood  up  and  publicly  confessed  the  sin  of  my  youth,  with 
the  years  of  suffering  which  had  followed — dare  I  say,  ex- 
piated it  ? 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  no  sin  ever  can  be  expiated 
except  in  One  Blessed  Way ;  yet  in  so  far  as  a  man  can 
atone  to  man,  I  believed  I  had  atoned  for  mine ;  I  had  tried 
to  give  a  life  for  a  life,  morally  speaking — ^nay,  I  had  given 
it.  But  it  was  not  enough ;  it  could  not  be.  Nothing  less 
than  the  truth  was  required  from  me,  and  I  here  offered  it. 
Thus,  in  one  short  half  hour,  the  burden  of  a  lifetime  was 
laid  down  forever. 

The  judge — ^he  was  not  unmoved,  so  they  told  me  after- 
ward— said  he  must  take  time  to  consider  the  sentence. 
Had  the  prisoner  any  witnesses  as  to  character  ? 

Several  came  forward.  Among  the  rest,  the  good  old 
chaplain,  who  had  traveled  all  night  from  Liverpool,  in  or- 
der, he  said,  just  to  shake  hands  with  me  to-day — which  he 
did,  in  open  court — God  bless  him ! 

There  was  also  Colonel  Turton,  with  Colin  Granton — 
who  had  never  left  me  since  daylight  this  morning — but 
they  all  held  back  v^^hen  they  saw  rise  and  come  forward, 
as  if  with  the  intention  of  being  sworn,  your  father. 

Have  no  fear,  my  love,  for  his  health.  I  watched  him 
closely  all  this  day.  He  bore  it  well — it  will  have  no  ill 
result,  I  feel  sure.  From  my  observation  of  him,  I  should 
say  that  a  great  and  salutary  change  had  come  over  him, 
both  body  and  mind,  and  that  he  is  as -likely  to  enjoy  a 
green  old  age  as  any  one  I  know. 

When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  as  steady  and  clear  as  be- 
fore his  accident  it  used  to  be  in  the  pulpit. 

"  My  lords  and  gentlemen,  I  was  subpoenaed  to  this  trial. 
ISTot  being  called  upon  to  give  evidence,  I  wish  to  make  a 
statement  upon  oath." 

There  must  liave  been  a  "  sensation  in  the  court,"  as 


380  A  LIFE   FOR   A  LIFE. 

newspapers  say,  for  I  saw  Granton  look  anxiously  at  me. 
But  I  had  no  fears.  Your  father,  whatever  he  had  to  say, 
was  sure  to  speak  the  truth^  not  a  syllable  more  or  less,  and 
the  truth  was  all  I  wanted. 

The  judge  here  interfered,  observing  that,  there  being 
no  trial,  he  could  receive  no  legal  evidence  against  the 
prisoner.. 

"  Nor  have  I  any  such  evidence  to  give :  I  was  only  for 
justice.     My  lord,  may  I  speak?" 

Assent  was  given. 

Your  father's  words  were  brief  and  formal ;  but  you  will 
imagine  how  they  fell  on  one  ear  at  least. 

"  My  name  is  William  Henry  Johnston,  clerk,  of  Hock- 
mount,  Surrey.  Henry  Johnston,  who — died — on  the  night 
of  November  19th,  1836,  was  my  only  son.  I  know  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar.  I  knew  him  for  some  time  before  he 
was  aware  whose  father  I  was,  or  I  had  any  suspicion  that 
my  son  came  to  his  death  in  any  other  way  than  by  acci- 
dent." 

"  Was  your  first  discovery  of  these  painful  facts  by  the 
prisoner's  present  confession  ?" 

"  No,  my  lord."  Your  father  hesitated,  but  only  mo- 
mentarily. "  He  told  me  the  whole  story  himself,  a  year 
ago,  under  circumstances  that  would  have  induced  most 
men  to  conceal  it  forever." 

The  judge  inquired,  "  Why  was  not  this  confession  made 
public  at  once  ?" 

"Because  I  was  afraid.  I  did  not  wish  to  make  my 
family  history  a  by-word  and  a  scandal.  I  exacted  a  prom- 
ise that  the  secret  should  be  kept  inviolate.  This  promise 
he  has  broken ;  but  I  blame  him  not.  It  ought  never  to 
have  been  made." 

"  Certainly  not.  It  was  thwarting  the  purposes  of  jus- 
tice and  of  the  law." 

"  My  lord,  I  am  an  old  man,  and  a  clergyman ;  I  know 
nothing  about  the  law ;  but  I  know  it  was  a  wrong  act  to 
bind  any  man's  conscience  to  live  a  perpetual  lie." 

Your  father  was  here  asked  if  he  had  any  thing  more  to 
say. 

"  A  word  only.  In  the  prisoner's  confession,  he  has,  out 
of  delicacy  to  me,  omitted  three  facts,  which  weigh  materi- 
ally in  extenuation  of  his  crime.  When  he  committed  it 
he  was  only  nineteen,  and  my  son  was  thirty.  He  was 
drunk,  and  my  son,  who  led  an  irregular  life,  had  made  him 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  381 

SO,  and  afterward  taunted  him  more  than  a  youth  of  nine- 
teen was  likely  to  bear.  Such  was  his  statement  to  me, 
and,  knowing  his  character  and  my  son's,  I  have  Httle  doubt 
of  its  perfect  accuracy." 

The  judge  looked  up  from  his  notes.  "  You  seem,  sir, 
strange  to  say,  to  be  not  unfavorable  toward  the  prisoner." 

"I  am  just  toward  the  prisoner.  I  wish  to  be,  even 
though  he  has  on  his  hands  the  blood  of  my  only  son." 

After  the  pause  which  followed,  the  judge  said : 

"  Mr.  Johnston,  the  Court  respects  your  feelings,  and  re- 
grets to  detain  you  longer  or  put  you  to  any  additional 
pain.  But  it  may  materially  aid  the  decision  of  this  very 
peculiar  case  if  you  w^ill  answer  another  question.  You 
are  aware  that,  all  other  evidence  beuig  wanting,  the  pris- 
oner can  only  be  judged  by  his  own  confession.  Do  you 
believe,  on  your  oath,  that  this  confession  is  true  ?" 

"  I  do.  I  am  bound  to  say,  from  my  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  prisoner,  that  I  believe  him  to  be  now,  whatever  he 
may  have  been  in  his  youth,  a  man  of  sterling  honor  and 
unblemished  life ;  one  who  would  not  tell  a  he  to  save  him- 
self from  the  scaffold." 
.    "  The  Court  is  satisfied." 

But  before  he  sat  down  your  father  turned,  and,  for  the 
first  time  that  day,  he  and  I  were  face  to  face. 

"  I  am  a  clergyman,  as  I  said,  and  I  never  was  in  a  court 
of  justice  before.  Is  it  illegal  for  me  to  address  a  few 
words  to  the  prisoner  ?" 

Whether  it  was  or  not,  nobody  interrupted  him. 

"Doctor  Urquhart,"  he  said,  speaking  loud  enough  for 
every  one  to  hear,  "  what  your  sentence  may  be,  I  know 
not,  or  whether  you  and  I  shall  ever  meet  again  until  the 
day  of  judgement.  If  not,  I  believe  that  if  we  are  to  be  for- 
given our  debts  according  as  we  forgive  our  debtors,  I 
shall  have  to  forgive  you  then.  I  prefer  to  do  it  now, 
while  we  are  in  the  flesh,  and  it  may  comfort  your  soul.  I, 
Henry  Johnston's  father,  declare  publicly  that  I  believe 
what  you  did  was  done  in  the  heat  of  youth,  and  has  ever 
since  been  bitterly  repented  of.  May  God  pardon  you, 
even  as  I  do  this  day." 

I  did  not  see  your  father  afterward.  He  quitted  the 
court  directly  after  sentence  was  given — three  months'  im- 
prisonment— the  judge  making  a  long  speech  previously ; 
but  I  heard  not  a  syllable.  I  heard  nothing  but  your  fa- 
ther's words — saw  no  one  except  himself,  sitting  there  be- 


382  A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE. 

low  me,  with  his  hands  crossed  on  his  stick,  and  a  stream 
of  sunshine  falling  across  his  white  hairs — Theodora — Theo- 
dora— 

I  can  not  write ;  it  is  impossible. 

Granton  got  admission  to  me  for  a  minute  after  I  was 
taken  back  to  prison.  He  told  me  that  the  "  hard  labor" 
was  remitted;  that  there  had  been  application  made  for 
commutation  of  the  three  months  into  one,  but  the  judge 
declined.  If  I  wished,  a  new  apphcation  should  be  made 
to  the  Home  Secretary. 

'No,  my  love,  suffer  him  not  to  do  it.  Let  nothing  more 
be  done.  I  had  rather  abide  my  full  term  of  punishment. 
It  is  only  too  easy. 

Do  not  grieve  for  me.  Trust  me,  my  child,  many  a  peer 
puts  on  his  robes  with  a  heavier  heart  than  I  put  on  this 
felon's  dress,  which  shocked  Granton  so  much  that  he  is 
sure  to  tell  you  of  it.  Never  mind  it — my  clothes  are  not 
me,  are  they,  Httle  lady  ?     Who  was  the  man  that  wrote 

"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent — " 

Am  I  innocent  ?  No  ;  but  I  am  forgiven,  as  I  believe, 
before  God  and  man.  And  are  not  all  the  glories  of  heav- 
en preparing,  not  for  sinners,  but  for  pardoned  souls  ? 

Therefore  I  am  at  peace.  The  fii'st  night  of  my  impris- 
onment is,  for  some  things,  as  happy  to  me  as  that  which  I 
have  often  imagined  to  myself  when  I  should  bring  you 
home  for  the  first  time  to  my  own  fireside. 

Not  even  that  thought,  and  the  rush  of  thoughts  that 
come  with  it,  are  able  to  shake  me  out  of  this  feeling  of  un- 
utterable rest — so  perfect  that  it  seems  strange  to  imagine 
I  shall  ever  go  out  of  this  cell  to  begin  afresh  the  turmoil 
of  the  world — as  strange  as  that  the  dead  should  wish  to 
return  again  to  life  and  its  cares.     But  this  as  God  wills. 

My  love,  good-night.  Granton  will  give  you  any  farther 
particulars.  Talk  to  him  freely — it  will  be  his  good  heart's 
best  reward.  His  happy,  busy  life,  which  is  now  begun, 
may  have  been  made  all  the  brighter  for  the  momentary 
cloud  which  taught  him  that  Providence  oftentimes  blesses 
us  in  better  ways  than  by  giving  us  exactly  the  thing  we 
desired.  He  told  me  when  we  parted,  which  was  the  only 
allusion  he  made  to  the  past,  that,  though  Mrs.  Colin  was 
"  the  dearest  little  woman  in  all  the  world,"  he  should  al- 
ways adore,  as  "  something  between  a  saint  and  an  angel," 
Miss  Dora. 


A   LIFE   FOE    A   LIFE.  383 

Is  she  my  saint  and  angel  ?  Perhaps — if  she  were  not 
likewise  the  woman  of  my  love. 

What  is  she  doing  now,  I  wonder?  Probably  vanish- 
ing, lamp  in  hand,  as  I  have  often  watched  her,  up  the  stair 
into  her  own  wee  room,  where  she  shuts  the  door  and  re- 
members me. 

Yes,  remember  me,  but  not  with  pain.  Beheve  me,  that 
I  am  happy — that  whatever  now  befalls  me  I  shall  always 
be  happy. 

Tell  your  father — 

No,  tell  him  nothing.  He  surely  knows  all.  Or  he  wiU 
know  it,  when,  this  life  having  passed  away  like  a  vapor, 
he  and  I  stand  together  before  the  One  God,  who  is  also 
the  Redeemer  of  sinners. 

Write  to  me,  but  do  not  come  and  see  me.  Hitherto 
your  name  has  been  kept  clear  out  of  every  thing ;  it  must 
be  still,  at  any  sacrifice  to  both  of  us.  I  count  on  this  from 
you.  You  kjQow,  you  once  said  laughing,  you  had  already 
taken  in  your  heart  the  marriage  vow  of  "  obedience,"  if  I 
chose  to  exact  it. 

I  never  did,  but  I  do  now.  Unless  I  send  for  you — 
which  I  solemnly  promise  to  do  if  illness  or  any  other  cause 
makes  it  necessary — obey  me,  your  husband ;  do  not  come 
and  see  me. 

Three  months  will  pass  quickly.  Then  ?  But  let  us  not 
look  forward. 

My  love,  good-night.  Max  Ueqxjhaet. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

HER   STOEY. 


Max  says  I  am  to  write  an  end  to  my  journal,  tie  it  up 
with  his  letters  and  mine,  fasten  a  stone  to  it,  and  drop  it 
over  the  ship's  bulwarks  into  this  blue,  blue  sea.  That  is, 
either  he  threatened  me  or  I  him,  I  forget  which,  with  such 
a  solemn  termination ;  but  I  doubt  if  we  shall  ever  have 
courage  to  do  it.  It  would  feel  something  like  dropping  a 
little  child  into  this  "  wild  and  wandering  grave,"  as  a  poor 
mother  on  board  had  to  do  yesterday. 

"  But  I  shall  see  him  again,"  she  sobbed,  as  I  was  help- 
ing her  to  sew  the  little  white  body  up  in  its  hammock. 
"The  good  God  will  take  care  of  him,  and  let  me  find  him 


384  A   LIFE    FOR    A  LIFE. 

again,  even  out  of  the  deep  sea.  I  can  not  lose  him;  I 
loved  him  so." 

And  thus,  I  believe,  no  perfect  love,  or  the  record  of  it, 
in  heart  or  in  word,  can  ever  be  lost.  So  it  is  of  small  mat- 
ter to  Max  and  me  whether  this,  our  true  love's  history, 
sinks  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  to  sleej^  there — 
as  we  almost  expected  we  should  do  yesterday,  there  was 
such  a  storm — or  is  sealed  up  and  preserved  for  the  bene- 
fit of — of  our  great  grandchildren. 

Ah  !  that  poor  mother  and  her  dead  child ! 

Max  here  crept  down  into  the  berth  to  look  for  me,  and 
I  returned  with  him  and  left  him  resting  comfortably  on 
the  quarter-deck,  promising  not  to  stir  for  a  whole  hour. 
I  have  to  take  care  of  him  still ;  but,  as  I  told  him,  the  sea 
Avinds  are  bringing  some  of  its  natural  brownness  back  to 
his  dear  old  face,  and  I  shall  not  consider  him  "  interest- 
ing" any  more. 

During  the  three  months  that  Max  was  in  prison  I  never 
saw  him.  Indeed,  we  never  once  met  from  the  day  we 
said  good-by  in  my  father's  presence  till  the  day  that — 
But  I  will  continue  my  story  systematically. 

All  those  three  months  Max  was  ill ;  not  dangerously — 
for  he  said  so,  and  I  could  believe  him.  It  would  have 
gone  very  hard  with  me  if  I  could  not  have  relied  on  him 
in  this,  as  in  every  thing.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  bitter 
time,  and  now  I  almost  wonder  how  I  bore  it — now,  when 
I  am  ready  and  willing  for  every  thing,  except  the  one 
thing,  which,  thank  God,  I  shall  never  have  to  bear  again 
—separation. 

The  day  before  he  came  out  of  prison  Max  wrote  to  me 
a  long  and  serious  letter.  Hitherto  both  our  letters  had 
been  filled  up  with  trivialities,  such  as  might  amuse  him 
and  cheer  me.  We  deferred  all  plans  till  he  was  better. 
My  private  thoughts,  if  I  had  any,  were  not  clear  even 
to  myself  until  Max's  lett-er. 

It  was  a  very  sad  letter.  Three  months'  confinement  in 
one  cell,  with  one  hour's  daily  walk  round  a  circle  in  a 
walled  yard — prisoner's  labor,  for  he  took  to  making  mats, 
saying  it  amused  him — prisoner's  rules  and  fare — no  won- 
der that  toward  the  end  even  his  brave  heart  gave  way. 

He  broke  down  utterly,  otherwise  he  never  would  have 
written  to  me  as  he  did — bidding  me  farewell — me  1  At 
first  I  was  startled  and  shocked ;  then  I  laid  down  the  let- 
ter and  smiled — a  very  sad  sort  of  smile,  of  course,  but  still 


A   lilFJE   FOR   A   LIFE.  385 

it  was  a  smile.  The  idea  that  Max  and  I  conld  part,  or 
desire  to  do  so,  under  any  human  circumstances,  seemed 
one  of  those  amusingly  impossible  things  that  one  would 
never  stop  to  argue  in  the  least,  either  with  one's  self  or 
any  other  person.  That  we  loved  one  another,  and  there- 
fore some  day  should  probably  be  married,  but  that  any 
how  we  belonged  to  one  another  till  death,  were  facts  at 
once  siniple  and  natural,  and  immutable  as  that  the  sun 
stood  in  the  heavens  or  that  the  grass  was  green. 

I  wrote  back  to  ]Max  that  night. 

I^ot  that  I  did  it  in  any  hurry  or  impulse  of  sudden  feel- 
ing. I  took  many  hours  to  consider  both  what  I  should 
say,  and  in  what  form  I  should  put  it.  Also,  I  had  doubts 
whether  it  would  not  be  best  for  hun,  if  he  accepted  the 
generous  offer  of  Mr.  Thorley's  son-in-law,- made  with  fuU 
knowledge  of  all  circumstances,  to  go  first  to  America 
alone.  But,  think  how  I  would,  my  thoughts  all  returned 
and  settled  in  the  same  track,  in  which  was  written  one 
clear  truth ;  that,  after  God  and  the  right — which  means 
all  claims  of  justice  and  conscience — ^the  first  duty  of  any 
two  who  love  truly  is  toward  one  another, 

I  have  thought  since  that  if  this  truth  were  plainer  seen 
and  more  firmly  held  by  those  whom  it  concerns,  many 
false  notions  about  honor,  pride,  self-respect,  would  slip  off; 
many  uneasy  doubts  and  divided  duties  would  be  set  at 
rest;  there  would  be  less  fear  of  the  world  and  more  of 
God,  the  only  righteous  fear.  People  would  believe  more 
simply  in  His  ordinance,  instituted  "  from  the  beginning" 
— ^not  the  mere  outward  ceremony  of  a  wedding,  but  the 
love  which  draws  together  man  and  woman  untU  it  makes 
them  complete  in  one  another,  in  the  mystical  marriage 
union,  which,  once  perfect,  should  never  be  disannulled. 
And  if  this  union  begins,  as  I  think  it  does,  from  the  very 
hour  each  feels  certain  of  the  other's  love — surely,  as  I  said 
to  Max — ^to  talk  about  giving  one  another  up,  whether 
from  poverty,  delay,  altered  circumstances,  or  compulsion 
of  friends,  any  thing,  in  short,  except  changed  love  or  lost 
honor — like  poor  Penelope  and  Francis — was  about  as 
foolish  and  wrong  as  attempting  to  annul  a  marriage.  In- 
deed, I  have  seen  many  a  marriage  that  might  have  been 
broken  with  far  less  unhohness  than  a  real  troth  plight, 
such  as  this  of  ours. 

After  a  little  more  "  preaching"  (a  bad  habit  that  I  fear 
is  growing  upon  me,  save  that  Max  merely  laughs  at  it,  or 

R 


386  A   L.IFE   FOll   A   LIFE. 

when  he  does  not  laugh  he  actually  listens!),  I  ended  my 
letter  by  the  earnest  advice  that  he  should  go  and  settle  in 
Canada,  and  go  at  once,  but  that  he  must  remember  he  had 
to  take  with  him  one  trifling  encumbrance — me. 

When  the  words  were  written,  the  deed  done,  I  was  a 
httle  startled  at  myself.  It  looked  so  exceedingly  like  my 
making  hvm  an  ofier  of  marriage !  But  then — good-by, 
foolish  doubt!  good-by,  contemptible  shame!  Those  few 
tears  that  burned  my  cheeks  after  the  letter  was  gone  were 
the  only  tears  of  the  sort  that  I  ever  shed — ^that  Max  will 
ever  suffer  me  to  shed.     Max  loves  me ! 

His  letter  in  reply  I  shall  not  give — not  a  line  of  it.  It 
was  only  for  me. 

So  that  being  settled,  the  next  thing  to  consider  was 
how  matters  could  be  brought  about,  without  delay  either ; 
for,  with  Max's  letter,  I  got  one  from  his  good  friend  Mrs. 
Ansdell,  at  whose  house  in  London  he  had  gone  to  lodge. 
Her  son  had  followed  his  two  sisters — they  were  a  con- 
sumptive family — Cleaving  her  a  poor  old  childless  widow 
now.  She  was  very  fond  of  my  dear  Max,  which  made  her 
quick-sighted  concerning  him^  and  so  she  wrote  as  she  did, 
delicately,  but  sufficiently  plainly  to  me,  who  she  said  he 
had  told  her  was,  in  case  of  any  sudden  calamity,  to  be  sent 
for  as  "  his  nearest  friend." 

My  dear  Max !  ISTow,  we  smile  at  these  sad  forebod- 
ings ;  we  believe  we  shall  both  live  to  see  a  good  old  age. 
But  if  I  had  known  that  we  should  only  be  married  a  year, 
a  month,  a  week — ^if  I  had  been  certain  he  would  die  in  my 
arms  the  very  same  day,  I  should  still  have  done  exactly 
what  I  did. 

In  one  sense,  his  illness  made  my  path  easier.  He  had 
need  of  me — ^vital,  instant  need,  and  no  one  else  had.  Also, 
he  was  so  weak  that  even  his  will  had  left  him ;  he  could 
neither  reason  nor  resist.  He  just  wrote,  "  You  are  my 
conscience ;  do  as  you  will,  only  do  right."  And  then,  as 
Mrs.  Ansdell  afterward  told  me,  he  lay  for  days  and  days, 
calm,  patient — waiting,  he  says,  for  another  angel  than 
Theodora. 

Well,  we  smile  now  at  these  days,  as  I  said ;  thank  God, 
we  can  smile ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  Uve  them  over  again. 
Max  refused  to  let  me  come  to  see  him  at  Mrs.  Ansdell's 
until  my  father  had  been  informed  of  all  our  plans.  But 
papa  went  on  in  his  daily  life,  now  so  active  and  cheerful ; 
he  did  not  seem  to  remember  any  thing  concerning  Doctor 


A  LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  387 

Urquhart  and  me.  For  two  whole  days  did  I  follow  him 
about,  watching  an  opportunity,  but  it  never  came.  The 
first  person  who  learned  my  secret  was  Penelope. 

How  many  a  time,  in  these  strange  summers  to  come, 
shall  I  call  to  mind  that  soft  English  summer  night,  under 
the  honeysuckle  bush — Penelope  and  I  sitting  at  our  work ; 
she  talking  the  while  of  Lisabel's  new  hope,  and  consider- 
ing which  of  us  two  should  best  be  spared  to  go  and  take 
care  of  her  in  her  trial. 

"  Or,  indeed,  papa  might  almost  be  left  alone  for  a  week 
or  two.  He  would  hardly  miss  us,  he  is  so  well.  I  should 
not  wonder  if,  like  grandfather,  whom  you  don't  remember, 
Dora,  he  lived  to  be  ninety  years  old." 

"  I  hope  he  may — ^I  hope  he  may !" 

And  I  burst  out  sobbing ;  then,  hanging  about  my  sis- 
ter's neck,  I  told  her  all. 

"  Oh !"  I  cried,  for  my  tongue  seemed  unloosed,  and  I 
was  not  afraid  of  speaking  to  her,  nor  even  of  hurting  her 
— if  now  she  could  be  hurt  by  the  personal  sorrows  that 
mine  recalled  to  her  mind.  "  Oh,  Penelope,  don't  you 
think  it  would  be  right?  Papa  does  not  want  me — ^no- 
body wants  me.     Or  if  they  did — " 

I  stopped.  Penelope  said,  meditatively,  "  A  tncm  shall 
leave  his  father  and  his  mother  and  cleave  unto  his  wife!''' 

"And  equally  a  woman  ought  to  cleave  unto  her  hus- 
band. I  mean  to  ask  my  father's  consent  to  my  going 
with  Max  to  Canada." 

"  Ah !  that's  sudden,  child."  And  by  her  start  of  pain 
I  felt  how  untruly  I  had  spoken,  and  how  keenly  I  must 
have  wounded  my  sister  in  saying,  "  I^obody  wanted  me" 
at  home. 

Home,  where  I  lived  for  nearly  twenty-seven  years,  all 
of  which  now  seem  such  happy  years.  "  God  do  so  imto 
me,  and  more  alsj^"  as  the  old  Hebrews  used  to  say,  if 
ever  I  forget  Rocfiaount,  my  peaceful  maiden  home  ! 

It  looked  so  pretty  that  night,  with  the  sunset  coloring 
its  old  walls,  and  its  terrace  walk,  where  papa  was  walking 
to  and  fro,  bareheaded,  the  rosy  Ught  falling  like  a  glory 
upon  his  long  white  hair.  To  think  of  him  thus  pacing 
his  garden,  year  after  year,  each  year  growig  older  and 
feebler,  and  I  never  seeing  him,  perhaps  never  hearing  from 
him — either  not  coming  back  at  all,  or  returning  after  a 
lapse  of  years  to  find  nothing  left  to  me  but  my  father's 
grave ! 


388  A   LIFE   rOE   A   LIFE. 

The  conflict  was  very  terrible ;  nor  would  Max  bimself 
have  wished  it  less.  They  who  do  not  love  their  own  flesh 
and  blood,  with  whom  they  have  lived  ever  since  they  were 
born,  how  can  they  know  what  any  love  is  ? 

We  heard  papa  call  us  :  "  Come  in,  you  girls !  The  sun 
is  down,  and  the  dews  are  falling." 

Penelope  put  her  hand  softly  on  my  head. 
"  Hush,  child,  hush !  Steal  into  your  own  room,  and 
quiet  yourself  I  will  go  and  explain  things  to  your  father." 
I  was  sure  she  must  have  done  it  in  the  best  and  gentlest 
way ;  Penelope  does  every  thing  so  wisely  and  gently  now ; 
but  when  she  came  to  look  for  me,  I  knew,  before  she  said 
a  word,  that  it  had  been  done  in  vain. 

"  Dora,  you  must  go  yourself  and  reason  with  him.  But 
take  heed  what  you  say  and  what  you  do.  There  is  hard- 
ly a  man  on  this  earth  for  whom  it  is  worth  forsaking  a 
happy  home  and  a  good  father." 

And  truly,  if  I  had  ever  had  the  least  doubt  of  Max,  or 
of  our  love  for  one  another  ;  if  I  had  not  felt  as  it  were  al- 
ready married  to  him,  who  had  no  tie  in  the  whole  wide 
world  but  me,  I  never  could  have  nerved  myself  to  say 
what  I  did  say  to  my  father.  If,  in  the  lightest  word,  it 
was  unjust,  unloving,  or  undutiful,  may  God  forgive  me, 
for  I  never  meant  it !  My  heart  was  breaking  almost ;  but 
I  only  wanted  to  hold  fast  to  the  right,  as  I  saw  it,  and  as, 
so  seeing  it,  I  could  not  but  act. 

"  So  I  understand  you  wish  to  leave  your  father  ?" 
"Papa!  papa!" 

"  Do  not  argue  the  point.  I  thought  that  folly  was  all 
over  now.  It  must  be  over.  Be  a  good  girl,  and  forget 
it.     There!" 

I  suppose  I  must  have  turned  very  white,  for  I  felt  him 
take  hold  of  me,  and  press  me  into  a  chair  beside  him. 
But  it  would  not  do  to  let  my  strength*'go.  ^ 

"  Papa,  I  want  your  consent  to  my  marriage  with  Doc- 
tor Urquhart.  He  would  come  and  ask  you  himself,  but 
he  is  too  iU.  We  have  waited  a  long  time,  and  sufiered 
much.  He  is  not  young,  and  I  feel  old — quite  old  myself, 
sometimes.     Do  not  part  us  any  more." 

This  was,  as  near  as  I  can  recollect,  what  I  said — said 
very  quietly  and  humbly,  I  know  it  was,  for   my  father 
seemed  neither  surprised  nor  angry ;  but  he  sat  there  as 
hard  as  a  stone,  repeating  only,  *'  It  must  be  over." 
"Why?" 


A   LIFE   FOR   A   LIFE.  389 

He  answered  by  one  word ;  '•'•  Harry P 

"  Xo  other  reason?" 

"  IsTone." 

Then  I  dared  to  speak  out  plain,  even  to  my  father. 
"  Papa,  you  said  pubHcly  you  had  forgiven  him  for  the 
death  of  Harry." 

""  But  I  never  said  I  should  forget." 

"Ay,  there  it  is!"  I  cried  out  bitterly.  "People  say 
they  forgive,  but  they  can  not  forget.  It  would  go  hard 
with  some  of  us  if  the  just  God  dealt  with  us  in  like  man- 
ner." 

"  You  are  profane." 

"  N^o ;  only  I  am  not  afraid  to  bring  God's  truth  into  all 
the  cu'cumstances  of  life,  and  to  judge  them  by  it.  I  be- 
lieve, if  Christ  came  into  the  world  to  forgive  sinners,  we 
ought  to  forgive  them  too." 

Thus  far  I  said,  not  thinking  it  just  toward  Max  that  I 
should  plead  merely  for  pity  to  be  shown  to  him  or  to  me 
who  loved  him,  but  because  it  was  the  right  and  the  truth, 
and  as  such,  both  for  Max's  honor  and  mine,  I  strove  to 
put  it  clearly  before  my  father.  And  then  I  gave  way, 
pleading  only  as  a  daughter  with  her  father,  that  he  should 
blot  out  the  past,  and  not,  for  the  sake  of  one  long  dead 
and  gone,  break  the  heart  of  his  living  child. 

"  Harry  would  not  wish  it — I  am  sure  he  would  not.  If 
Harry  has  gone  where  he,  too,  may  find  mercy  for  his  many 
sins,  I  know  that  he  has  long  ago  forgiven  my  dear  Max." 

My  father,  muttering  something  about  "  strange  theolo- 
gy," sat  thoughtful.  It  was  some  time  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  There  is  one  point  of  the  subject  you  omit  entirely. 
What  wiU  the  world  say  ?  I,  a  clergyman,  to  sanction  the 
marriage  of  my  daughter  with  the  man  who  took  the  life 
of  my  son  ?     It  is  not  possible." 

Then  I  grew  bold :  "  So,  it  is  not  the  law  of  God,  or  jus- 
tice, or  nature,  that  keeps  us  asunder,  but  the  world? 
Father,  you  have  no  right  to  part  Max  and  me  for  fear  of 
the  world." 

When  it  was  said,  I  repented  myself  of  this.  But  it  was 
too  late.     All  his  former  hardness  returned  as  he  said, 

"I  am  aware  that  I  have  no  legal  right  to  forbid  your 
marriage.  You  are  of  age ;  you  may  act,  as  you  have  all 
along  acted,  in  defiance  of  your  father." 

"  Never  in  defiance,  nor  even  in  secret  disobedience ;" 


390  A  LIFE  FOR   A   LIFE. 

and  I  reminded  him  how  all  things  had  been  carried  on — 
open  and  plain — from  first  to  last ;  how  patiently  we  had 
waited ;  and  how,  if  Max  were  well  and  prosperous,  I  might 
still  have  said,  "-We  will  wait  a  little  longer."     Now — 

"WeU,andnow?" 

I  went  down  on  my  very  knees,  and  with  tears  and  sobs 
besought  my  father  to  let  me  be  Max's  wife. 

It  was  in  vam. 

"  Good-night ;  go  to  yom'  bed,  Dora,  and  weary  me  no 
niore." 

I  rose,  certain  now  that  the  time  was  come  when  I  must 
choose  between  two  duties — ^between  father  and  husband ; 
the  one  to  whom  I  owed  existence,  the  other  to  whose  in- 
fluence I  owed  every  thing  that  had  made  me  a  girl  worth 
living  or  worth  loving.  Such  crises  do  come  to  poor  souls ! 
God  guide  them,  for  He  only  can. 

"  Good-night,  father."  My  lips  felt  dry  and  stiff;  it  wag 
scarcely  my  own  voice  that  I  heard.  "  I  will  wait ;  there 
are  still  a  few  days." 

He  turned  suddenly  upon  me.  "What  are  you  plan- 
ning?    Tell  the  truth." 

"  I  meant  to  do  so."  And  then,  briefly — ^for  each  word 
came  out  with  pain,  as  if  it  were  a  last  breath — I  explained 
that  Doctor  Urquhart  would  have  to  leave  for  Canada  in 
a  month — that,  if  we  had  gained  my  father's  consent,  we 
intended  to  be  married  in  three  weeks,  remain  a  week  in 
England,  and  then  sail. 

"  And  what  if  I  do  not  give  my  consent  ?" 

I  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  strength  came. 

"  I  must  be  Max's  wife  still.  God  gave  us  to  one  anoth- 
er, and  God  only  shall  put  us  asunder." 

After  that,  I  remember  nothing  till  I  found  myself  lying 
in  my  own  bed,  with  Penelope  beside  me. 

No  words  can  tell  how  good  my  sister  Penelope  was  to 
me  in  the  three  weeks  that  followed.  She  helped  me  in  all 
my  marriage  preparations,  few  and  small,  for  I  had  httle 
or  no  money  except  what  I  might  have  asked  papa  for,  and 
I  would  not  have  done  that — not  for  worlds !  Max's  wife 
would  have  come  to  him  almost  as  poor  as  Griseldis,  had 
not  Penelope  one  day  taken  me  to  those  locked-up  drawers 
of  hers. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  ill  luck  with  these  things  ?  No  ? 
Then  choose  whatever  you  want,  and  may  you  have  health 
and  happiness  to  wear  them,  my  dear." 


A   LIFE   FOE   A  LIFE.  391 

And  so,  with  a  little  more  stitching — for  I  had  a  sort  of 
superstition  that  I  should  like  to  be  married  in  one  new 
w^hite  gown,  which  my  sister  and  I  made  between  us— ^we 
finished  and  j)acked  the  small  wardrobe  which  was  all  the 
marriage  portion  poor  Theodora  Johnston  could  bring  to 
her  husband. 

My  father  must  have  been  well  aware  of  our  preparations, 
for  we  did  not  attempt  to  hide  them ;  the  household  knew 
only  that  Miss  Dora  was  "  going  a  journey,"  but  he  knew 
better — that  she  was  going  to  leave  him  and  her  old  home, 
perhaps  forevermore.  Yet  he  said  nothing.  Sometimes  I 
caught  him  looking  earnestly  at  me — at  the  poor  face  which 
I  saw  in  the  looking-glass — growing  daily  more  white  and 
heavy-eyed — yet  he  said  nothing. 

Penelope  told  me  when,  hearing  me  fall,  she  had  run  into 
the  hbrary  that  night,  he  bade  her  "take  the  child  away, 
and  say  she  must  not  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  any 
more."  I  obeyed.  I  behaved  all  through  those  three  weeks 
as  if  each  day  had  been  hke  the  innumerable  other  days 
that  I  had  sat  at  my  father's  table,  walked  and  talked  by 
his  side,  if  not  the  best  loved,  at  least  as  well  loved  as  any 
of  his  daughters.  But  it  was  an  ordeal  such  as  even  to  re- 
member gives  one  a  shiver  of  pain,  wondering  how  one  bore 
it. 

During  the  daytime  I  was  quiet  enough,  being  so  busy, 
and,  as  I  said,  Penelope  was  very  good  to  me ;  but  at  night 
I  used  to  he  awake,  seeing,  with  open  eyes,  strange  figures 
about  the  room — especially  my  mother,  or  some  one  I  fan- 
cied was  she.  I  would  often  talk  to  her,  asking  her  if  I 
were  acting  right  or  wrong,  and  whether  all  that  I  did  for 
Max  she  would  not  have  once  done  for  my  father ;  then 
rouse  myself  with  a  start,  and  a  dread  that  my  wits  were 
going,  or  that  some  heavy  illness  was  approaching  me,  and 
if  so,  what  would  become  of  Max. 

At  length  arrived,  the  last 'day — the  day  before  my  mar- 
riage. It  was  not  to  be  here,  of  course,  but  in  some  Lon- 
don church,  near  Mrs.  Ansdell's,  who  was  to  meet  me  her- 
self at  the  railway  station  early  the  same  morning,  and  re- 
main with  me  till  I  was  Doctor  Urquhart's  wife.  I  could 
have  no  other  friend ;  Penelope  and  I  agreed  that  it  was 
best  not  to  risk  my  father's  displeasure  by  asking  for  her 
to  go  to  my  marriage.  So,  without  sister  or  father,  or  any 
of  my  own  kin,  I  was  to  start  on  my  sad  wedding  morning 
— quite  alone. 


392  A   LIFE   FOR   A    LIFE. 

During  the  week  I  had  taken  an  opportunity  to  drive 
over  to  the  Cedars,  shake  hands  with  Cohn  and  his  wife, 
and  give  his  dear  old  mother  one  long  kiss,  which  she  did 
not  know  was  a  good-by.  Otherwise  I  bade  farewell  to 
no  one.  My  last  walk  through  the  village  was  amid  a  del- 
uge of  August  rain,  in  which  my  moorlands  vanished,  all 
niist  and  gloom.  A  heavy,  heavy  night ;  it  will  be  long 
before  the  weight  of  it  is  lifted  off  my  remembrance. 

And  yet  I  knew  I  was  doing  right,  and,  if  needed,  would 
do  it  all  over  again.  Every  human  love  has  its  sacrifices 
and  its  anguishes  as  well  as  its  joys — ^the  one  great  love 
of  life  has  often  most  of  all.  Therefore,  let  those  beware 
who  enter  upon  it  lightly,  or  selfishly,  or  without  having 
counted  its  full  cost. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  we  shall  be  happy,"  said  I  to  Penel- 
ope, when  she  was  cheering  me  with  a  future  that  inay  nev- 
er come ;  "  I  only  know  that  Max  and  I  have  cast  our  lots 
together,  and  that  we  shall  love  one  another  to  the  end." 

And  in  that  strong  love  armed,  I  lived — otherwise,  many 
times  that  day,  it  would  have  seemed  easier  to  have  died. 

When  I  went,  as  usual,  to  bid  papa  good-night,  I  could 
hardly  stand.     He  looked  at  me  suspiciously. 

"  Good-night,  my  dear.  By-the-by,  Dora,  I  shall  want 
you  to  drive  me  to  the  Cedars  to-morrow." 

"  I — I — ^Penelope  will  do  it."  And  I  fell  on  his  breast 
with  a  pitiful  cry.  "Only  bid  me  good-by!  Only  say 
'  God  bless  you,'  just  once,  father." 

He  breathed  hard.  "I  thought  so.  Is  it  to  be  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

I  told  him. 

For  a  few  minutes  papa  let  me  lie  where  I  was,  patting 
my  shoulder  softly,  as  one  does  a  sobbing  child ;  then,  still 
gently,  he  put  me  away  from  him. 

"  We  had  better  end  this,  Dora ;  I  can  not  bear  it.  Kiss 
me.     Good-by." 

"  And  not  one  blessing  ?    Papa,  papa !" 

My  father  rose,  and  laid  his  hand  solemnly  on  my  head : 
"  You  have  been  a  dutiful  girl  to  me  in  all  things  save  this, 
and  a  good  daughter  makes  a  good  wife.  Farewell! 
Wherever  you  go,  God  bless  you !" 

And  as  he  closed  the  library  door  upon  me  I  thought  I 
had  taken  my  last  look  of  my  dear  father. 


A   LIFE   POE   A   LIFE.  393 

It  was  oiily  six  o'clock  in  ttie  morning  when  Penelope 
took  me  to  the  station.  Nobody  saw  us — nobody  knew. 
The  man  at  the  railway  stopped  tis,  and  talked  to  Penelope 
for  full  two  minutes  about  his  wife's  illness — two  whole 
minutes  out  of  our  Jast  five. 

— My  sister  would  not  bid  me  good-by,  being  determined, 
she  said,  to  see  me  again,  either  in  London  or  Liyerpool, 
before  we  sailed.  She  had  kept  me  up  wonderfully,  and 
her  last  kiss  was  ahnost  cheerful,  or  she  made  it  seem  so. 
I  can  still  see  her — very  pale,  for  she  had  been  up  since 
daylight,  but  otherwise  quiet  and  tearless,  pacing  the  soli- 
tary platform — our  two  long  shadows  ghding  together  be- 
fore us  in  the  early  morning  sun.  And  I  see  her,  even  to 
the  last  minute,  standing  with  her  hand  on  the  carriage 
do  or — smiling. 

"  Give  Doctor  Urquhart  my  love ;  tell  him  I  know  he 
will  take  care  of  you.  And,  child,"  turning  round  once 
again  with  her  "  practical"  look  that  I  knew  so  well,  "  re- 
member, I  have  written  '  Miss  Johnston'  on  your  boxes. 
Afterward,  be  sure  that  you  alter  the  name.  Good-by — 
nonsense,  it  is  not  really  good-by." 

Ay,  but  it  was.     For  how  many,  many  years  ? 

In  that  dark,  gloomy  London  church,  which  a  thundery 
mist  made  darker  and  stiller,  I  first  saw  again  my  dear  Max. 

Mrs.  AnsdeU  said,  lest  I  should  be  startled  and  shocked, 
that  it  was  only  the  sight  of  me  which  overcame  him — that 
he  was  really  better.  And  so  when,  after  the  first  few  min- 
utes, he  asked  me,  hesitatingly,  "  if  I  did  not  find  him  much 
altered  ?"  I  answered  boldly,  "  ISTo ;  that  I  should  soon  get 
accustomed  to  his  gray  hair ;  besides,  I  never  remembered 
him  either  particularly  handsome  or  particularly  young ;" 
at  which  he  smiled ;  and  then  I  knew  again  my  own  Max ! 
and  all  things  ceased  to  feel  so  mournfully  strange. 

We  went  into  one  of  the  far  pews,  and  Max  tried  on  my 
ring.  How  his  hands  shook !  so  much  that  all  my  trem- 
bling passed  away,  and  a  great  calm  came  over  me.  Yes, 
I  had  done  right.     He  had  nobody  but  me. 

So  we  sat  side  by  side,  neither  of  us  speaking  a  word, 
until  the  pew-opener  came  to  say  the  clergyman  was  ready. 

There  were  several  other  couples  waiting  to  be  married 
at  the  same  time — who  had  bridesmaids,  and  friends,  and 
fathers.  We  three  walked  up  and  took  our  places — there 
was  no  one  to  pay  heed  to  us.  I  saw  the  verger  whisper 
something  to  Max,  to  which  he  answered  "  Yes,"  and  the 

R  2 


394  A  LIFE   FOK   A   LIFE. 

old  man  came  and  stood  behind  Mrs.  Ansdell  and  me.  A 
few  other  folk  were  dotted  about  in  the  pews,  but  I  only 
noticed  them  as  moving  figures,  and  distinguished  none. 

The  service  began,  which  I — indeed  we  both — had  last 
heard  at  Lisabel's  wedding,  in  our  pretty  church,  all  flower- 
adorned,  she  looking  so  handsome  and  happy,  with  her  sis- 
ters near  her,  and  her  father  to  give  her  away.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  felt  very  desolate ;  and  hearing  a  pew  door  open 
and  a  footstep  come  slowly  up  the  aisle,  I  trembled  with  a 
vague  fear  that  something  might  happen,  something  which 
even  at  the  last  moment  might  part  Max  and  me. 

But  it  did  not ;  I  heard  him  repeat  the  solemn  promises 
— how  dare  any  one  make  them  lightly,  or  break  them  aft- 
erward ? — to  "  love^  comfort^  honor ^  and  keep  me^  in  sick- 
ness and  in  healthy  and^  forsaking  all  other ^  keep  me  only 
unto  him^  so  long  as  we  both  shoidd  Uve.^''  And  I  felt  that 
I  also,  out  of  the  entire  trust  I  had  in  him,  and  the  great 
love  I  bore  him,  could  cheerfully  forsake  all  other,  father, 
sisters,  kindred,  and  friends,  for  him.  They  were  very  dear 
to  me,  and  would  be  always ;  but  he  was  part  of  myself — 
my  husband. 

And  here  let  me  relate  a  strange  thing — so  unexpected 
that  Max  and  I  shall  always  feel  it  as  a  special  blessing  from 
heaven  to  crown  all  our  pain  and  send  us  forth  on  our  new 
life  in  peace  and  joy.  When  in  the  service  came  the  ques- 
tion, "  Who  giveth  this  woman,  etc.,"  there  was  no  answer, 
and  the  silence  went  like  a  stab  to  my  heart.  The  minister, 
thinking  there  was  some  mistake,  repeated  it  again :  "  Who 
giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ?" 

"I  do." 

It  was  not  a  stranger's  voice,  but  my  dear  father's. 
******* 

My  husband  had  asked  me  where  I  should  best  like  to 
go  for  our  marriage  journey.  I  said  to  St.  Andrew's.  Max 
grew  much  better  there.  He  seemed  better  from  the  very 
hour  when,  papa  having  remained  with  us  till  our  train 
started,  we  were  for  the  first  time  left  alone  by  our  two 
selves.  An  expression  ungrammatical  enough  to  be  quite 
worthy.  Max  would  say,  of  his  little  lady,  but  people  who 
are  married  will  understand  what  it  means.  We  did,  I 
think,  as  we  sat  still,  my  head  on  his  shoulder  and  my  hand 
between  both  his,  watching  the  fields,  trees,  hills,  and  dales 
fly  past  like  changing  shadows,  never  talking  at  all,  nor 
thinking  much,  except — the  glad  thought  came  in  spite  of  all 


A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE.  395 

the  bitterness  of  these  good-bys — ^that  there  was  one  good- 
by  which  never  need  be  said  again.     We  were  married. 

I  was  dehghted  with  St.  Andrew's.  We  shall  always 
talk  of  our  four  days  there,  so  dream-hke  at  the  time,  yet 
afterward  become  clear  in  remembrance  down  to  the  mi- 
nutest particulars.  The  sweetness  of  them  will  last  us 
through  many  a  working  hour,  many  an  hour  of  care — 
such  as  we  know  must  come,  in  ours  as  in  all  human  lives. 
We  are  not  afraid  ;  we  are  together. 

Our  last  day  in  St.  Andrew's  was  Sunday,  and  Max  took 
me  to  his  own  Presbyterian  church,  in  which  he  and  his 
brother  were  brought  up,  and  of  which  Dallas  was  to  have 
been  a  minister.  From  his  many  wanderings  it  so  happen- 
ed that  my  husband  had  not  heard  the  Scotch  service  for 
many  years,  and  he  was  much  affected  by  it.  I  too,  when, 
reading  together  the  psalms  at  the  end  of  his  Bible,  he  show- 
ed me,  silently,  the  name  written  in  it — Dallas  Urquhart. 

The  psalm — I  shall  long  remember  it,  with  the  tune  it 
was  sung  to — which  was  strange  to  me,  but  Max  knew  it 
well  of  old,  and  it  had  been  a  particular  favorite  with  Dal- 
las. Surely  if  spirit,  freed  from  flesh,  be  every  where,  or, 
if  permitted,  can  go  any  where  that  it.  desires — not  very 
far  from  us  two,  as  we  sat  singing  that  Sunday,  must  have 
been  our  brother  Dallas. 

"How  lovely  is  thy  dwelling-place, 

O  Lord  of  hosts,  to  me  ! 
The  tabernacles  of  thy  grace, 

How  pleasant,  Lord,  they  be  ! 
My  thirsty  soul  longs  vehemently, 

Yea,  faints,  thy  courts  to  see ; 
My  very  heart  and  flesh  cry  out, 

O  living  God,  for  thee 

Bless'd  are  they,  in  thy  house  who  dwell, 

Who  ever  give  thee  praise ; 
Bless'd  is  the  man  whose  strength  thou  art, 

In  whose  heart  are  thy  ways  ; 
Who,  passing  thorough  Baca's  vale, 

Therein  do  dig  up  wells  ; 
Also  the  rain  that  falleth  down 

The  pools  with  water  fills. 
Thus  they  from  strength  unwearied  go 

StiU  forward  unto  strength, 
Until  in  Zion  they  appear 

Before  the  Lord  at  length." 

Amen !  So,  when  this  hfe  is  ended,  may  we  appear,  even 
there  still  together,  my  husband  and  I ! 


396  A   LIFE    FOK    A   LIFE. 

Contrary  to  our  plans,  we  did  not  see  Rockmount  again, 
nor  Penelope,  nor  my  dear  father.  It  was  thought  best 
not,  especially  as  in  a  few  years,  at  latest,  we  hope,  God  will- 
ing, to  visit  them  all  again,  or  perhaps  even  to  settle  in  En- 
gland. 

After  a  single  day  spent  at  Treherne  Court,  Augustus 
went  with  us  one  sunshiny  morning  on  board  the  American 
steamer,  which  lay  so  peacefully  in  the  middle  of  the  Mer- 
sey, just  as  if  she  were  to  lie  there  forever,  instead  of  sail- 
ing, and  we  with  her,  in  one  little  half  hour — saihng  far 
away,  far  away,  to  a  home  we  knew  not,  leaving  the  old 
famiHar  faces  and  the  old  familiar  land. 

It  seemed  doubly  precious  now,  and  beautiful — even  the 
sandy  flats,  that  Max  had  so  often  told  me  about,  along  the 
Mersey  shore.  I  saw  him  look  thoughtfully  toward  them, 
after  pointing  out  to  me  the  places  he  knew,  and  where  his 
former  work  had  lain. 

"  That  is  all  over  now,"  he  said,  half  sadly.  "  ll^othing 
has  happened  as  I  planned,  or  hoped,  or — " 

"Or  feared." 

"  No.  My  dear  wife,  no  !  Yet  all  has  been  for  good. 
All  is  very  good.  I  shall  find  new  work  in  a  new  coun- 
try." 

"And  I  too?" 

Max  smiled.  "  Yes,  she  too.  We'll  work  together,  my 
little  lady!" 

The  half  hour  was  soon  over — ^the  few  last  words  soon 
said.  But  I  did  not  at  all  realize  that  we  were  away  till  I 
saw  Augustus  wave  us  good-by,  and  heard  the  sudden  boom 
of  our  farewell  gun  as  the  Europa  slipped  off  her  mail  tend- 
er, and  went  steaming  seaward  alone — ^fast,  oh !  so  fast. 

The  sound  of  that  gun,  it  must  have  nearly  broken  many 
a  heart  many  a  time !  I  think  it  would  have  broken  mine 
had  I  not,  standing,  close-clasped,  by  my  husband's  side, 
looked  up  in  his  dear  face,  and  read,  as  he  in  mine,  that  to 
us,  thus  together,  every  where  was  Home. 


THE  IHSTD. 


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